


In Your Heart Shall Burn

by MildlyMoonstruck



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Floor Sex, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Worship Kink, Minor canon divergence, Mostly Canon Compliant, Multi, Mutual Pining, Romance, Serious, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-10-06 06:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 192,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10328306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildlyMoonstruck/pseuds/MildlyMoonstruck
Summary: 'Creators, he probably doesn’t know what he does to her. How he, most unexpectedly, makes her want to seek him out and ask him things, tell him things. Him, of all people. ‘Fen’harel is laughing, somewhere,’ she thinks. The Trickster God, playing joke after joke on her--survivor of the Conclave, Herald of Andraste, leader of the Inquisition--Heart full of affection for a human man.'As prepared as Asha'revas had been for leadership, nothing could have prepared her for this. Not for any of it. Certainly not for Cullen Rutherford.





	1. Prisoner

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my GOD, why am I like this. All these [unfinished, precious stories in another fandom waiting for me to complete them] and I still got no [sense of self-control or focus that enables me to complete my fics before the idea for a new one screams at me day and night to write]. Listen, this story is intense and delicious and I have been holding onto it for literally years. Welcome to chapter one of many, constructive criticism is 100000% welcome and encouraged!

“Da’len,” Keeper Deshanna murmurs, her low voice like a breeze through the trees that blanket them in shadows. High above, the golden light of Elgar’nan is fading fast as the last of its bright rays begin to sink over the horizon. Keeper Deshanna reaches out a soft hand, faintly wrinkled with age--but then she thinks better of the action and returns her touch to the smooth Ironbark of her staff. Her First is a child no longer, and she hadn’t been for many years--certainly not now, on the eve of her departure from the clan.

The thought seems to strike Asha’revas at the same time, and she gives her Keeper a faint smile that is meant to be more reassuring than strained. Her eyes, a hue like the tips of royal elfroot, shine faintly. Curling her fingers around nothing but air--her staff, for obvious reasons, cannot be brought with her--she draws a quick breath and says, “I will return, Keeper Deshanna.”

 _‘I promise,_ ’ she wants to add. But that would have been unwise.

The Keeper gives her a tight smile, her thick braids gently rustling in the wind. “I have said it many times over,” she begins, her smile melting into fondness when Asha rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “But I will say it once more. You must be careful, da’len. Keep your hood up among the crowds. Travel only at night if you can. And--”

“Stay away from templars,” Asha finishes for her, nodding solemnly. “I know, Keeper.”

The faint lines around the Keeper’s eyes grow more prominent as her lips tighten. “And even mages as well,” she adds. “We must move once again; the fighting…” her voice trails off into silence as she spares a glance over her shoulder. Though the trees are too tall to see past, an ache blooms within Asha’s chest as she thinks of the aravels deep within the forest. Home.

“This war affects all of us,” she whispers.

“That it does.” Keeper Deshanna turns back to her once more, her warm, dark eyes moving over Asha as though they are trying to memorize the sight of her. Asha hopes that she is successful in concealing her own almost desperate gaze; her clan depends on her, and she would not have them doubt her resolve. “Ghilan’nain guide you, da’len.”

“And all of you, as well,” Asha whispers, and her voice can't help but tremble. Already, she feels bereft--she would go one way, and her clan would go another. The trip would be dangerous--perhaps the most dangerous thing that she would ever do. And yet, it is her duty as the First of her clan to seek out the Conclave that will be held across the Waking Sea. It is her duty to learn what will become of the war that had begun between mages and templars, a war which had already displaced the clan and would continue to do so if the rumored peace talks between both sides proved fruitless.

It is her duty to learn all of this and come back. To reunite with her clan. To step up when Keeper Deshanna steps down. To lead her people. They all count on her, and she bears that burden with as much grace as she can muster when deep down, she is so very afraid.

Perhaps Keeper Deshanna senses it. Perhaps it is a glimmer of that very fear shining in her bright eyes which prompts the older woman to come forward and gather Asha to her, wrapping warm brown arms around the young woman who she had trained since she was a mere child. The glittering stone beads braided through her hair clink gently with the motion, and Asha takes the moment to feel like a child once more--protected, safe. “You are ready,” Keeper Deshanna says, not a touch of doubt in her tone.

Asha’s brows furrow deeply, the wind stirring her dark hair and loose clothes. “Am I?” she whispers, half-hoping that the sounds of nature will drown her out. But the Keeper hears, and she draws back to grasp at her shoulders with steady hands. Asha can feel the ridges of her staff pressed against her shoulder, and the empty space in her hands where her own should have been held aches like an old wound. She meets the Keeper’s eyes, but the reprimand that she is expecting never comes. Deshanna merely watches her, waiting. Somehow, the silent display of faith bolsters her resolve; Asha tips her chin up and squares her shoulders, letting the worry transform within her. “I am,” she says at last.

Keeper Deshanna gives her one last smile; her pride is clear as her gaze momentarily flicks to the vallaslin tattooed onto Asha’s forehead. The intricate design of the great tree that represents Mythal, marked into her skin with blood and the blackest ink, makes Keeper Deshanna’s heart swell as she gazes at her First. When she was a child, she had also chosen to wear the same design, but it had taken her many years before she could stand the pain of every branch.

Asha, however, had sat for her blood writing without a single cry or wince of pain at twenty--two years after she had already come of age, at her own request. And she had never wavered; Deshanna had seen many elves come of age who, no doubt wanting to be as revered in the clan as they revered Mythal as a goddess, stopped at branches on their cheeks, the pain too much. The Keeper did not begrudge them that; she knew she herself was guilty of the same beliefs in her youth. If their inability to take on the full markings that represented the greatest of their Creators was a thing that they accepted, then the Keeper considered it their first lesson as adults. They learned, and they matured.

Asha needed no such lesson, however. She had appreciated but ignored the concerns of others who insisted that she try to sit for her vallaslin as soon as she turned eighteen. She had continued to study her duties diligently, as she always had. She had honed her skill in magic carefully, and her talent had grown. If she made a mistake, it was corrected; if she knew she was out of her depth from the start, she stepped back until she was ready.

Her choice to wear the branches that represented the Protector and All-Mother--the one they prayed to for protection, for righteousness, for love--had been inevitable. It was a confirmation of what Deshanna had long suspected to be true.

That she would be a great leader. And this will be her first test. “You will travel very far,” she murmurs, patting Asha once before she releases her--an action that is somehow more difficult than the Keeper had expected. Perhaps because she knows that she cannot protect her First from this moment forward. “But you know what you must do, da’len. Go forward with steady hands and feet; you represent the best of Clan Lavellan. The effects of what happens at the Chantry’s Conclave will ripple throughout the world, just as this war has. It will impact not just our clan, but indeed all elves throughout Thedas. Whatever happens, we will be forever changed.”

In that moment, she could not have known how right she was.

 

XXX

 

Her hand is burning, and everything happens all at once.

Sensation returns a brief moment before sight, and even sound, but it consumes her left arm in sickly green flames; a spell is her first thought, the rest tumbling down after in her mind. Someone had hit her with a spell--a mage from the Conclave? Were things going in the way of Kirkwall, when a mage possessed had blown their Chantry to pieces? Flight is the reaction; gritting her teeth and sucking in harsh hisses of air past the searing pain, her eyes shoot open to search for the nearest escape. She cannot die here.

The glint of a sword in the darkness catches her eye, and Asha freezes, feeling as though ice has dripped down her spine and locked her in place. Templars are her first thought, and for a moment, she dearly wishes that her staff could be in her hand. They might be able to nullify her magic with their abilities, but they would not have been able to dull the wicked blade affixed to the end that had tasted blood more than once--when necessary.

Asha blinks. And then she realizes. She is not at the Conclave any longer, but in a dungeon instead. She hears screams, but they are faint and fading still--mere echoes. Memory. Nobody is screaming now; the sight before her is not the chaos of peace talks gone awry, descending into violence. In fact, she can’t recall what exactly had become of those talks; all she knows now is the feeling of fire burning in her left hand--her _shackled_ left hand--and the sight of soldiers standing in a circle before her, their angry eyes and blades trained firmly on her.

_‘Creators--’_

The thought goes unfinished as a heavy door slams open before her, and two human women walk through. Asha’s mouth, open in a gasp of pain that had barely left her lips before their arrival, quickly snaps shut as the unfamiliar soldiers surrounding her suddenly sheath their swords and stand at attention. Whatever trouble she feels she has landed in now, the sour dread curdling in her gut is magnified as the angrier of the two women slowly begins to prowl around her.

 _‘Mythal protect me,’_ Asha thinks, eyeing the second woman--a hooded redhead with porcelain skin and a gaze as hard as glass. She turns her head almost imperceptibly, cutting her eyes at the first who continues to circle her, breathing heavily.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she spits, her voice accented and trembling with rage. Though her hand burns, Asha stills her mind and readies herself to draw from the well of power within her; as a skilled mage, she needs no staff. But thoughts of attack, of escape, quickly fade when the woman continues, “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead… Except for you.”

Asha feels her heart drop like a rock, her connection to her own talent quickly severed as confusion and horror fill her mind in equal measure. She wants to react, to cry out and demand an answer, an explanation--but she knows better. And now, the swords and the rage directed at her make sense. They are, in fact, the only things in this moment that make any sort of sense.

These humans think her responsible. And once they've decided her guilt, Asha knows that her fate is sealed. Her gaze hardening, she meets the eyes of her accuser without hesitation. This woman, whoever she is, with close-cropped hair and an angular face that holds nothing but disdain for her will hear no begging. No pleading. No explanation.

Asha knows that she wouldn’t be believed anyway. Not if this woman's words are true. Not if she really is the only survivor of a meeting that hundreds had attended.

Sensing that Asha is not about to speak, the woman sneers and latches unforgiving fingers around her wrist. Her shackles clank heavily as she jerks Asha’s left hand into the air and spits, “Explain _this_.”

Her hand chooses that exact moment to burst into flames again; Asha hisses, squinting against the bright light--and then she realizes several things at once. The first is that her hand is not on fire, but it is indeed searing with some sort of magic that is not her own. The second is that this magic has left a mark on her palm--a terribly painful one that pours green light into the room as it flares to life.

The third is that she has absolutely no idea how it had gotten there. More than that, Asha realizes that she has no idea how she had gotten where she was as well. Her mind is a complete blank; whatever memories of the past few days she tries her best to recall are not in her ability to grasp. A shocked breath leaves her, and she hears herself dazedly replying, “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” the unfamiliar woman snaps, flinging her hand back down and resuming her steady prowl around her; this time, the hooded woman joins her, and Asha feels what little check she’d had on her emotions slip away.

“I don’t know what that is, or how it got there--”

“You’re _lying!_ ” the woman snarls, lunging forward to grab her by the front of her clothes; Asha feels a breath hitch in her throat, lightning sparking through her body as she readies--

“We need her, Cassandra!” snaps the hooded woman, wrenching the fierce grip away and guiding Asha’s would-be attacker back.

The storm inside of her is soothed before it ever reaches her fingertips, but Asha will not calmly bear the brunt of these strangers’ anger and accusations without defending herself any longer. “Whatever you think I did, I’m innocent,” she firmly declares. And if they will not believe her, then she will go to her death screaming these words.

“Do you remember what happened?” the hooded woman asks, her Orlesian accent crisp. “How this began?”

“I--” Asha begins, ready to again deny; the void in her mind where her memories should have been gapes at her, an empty abyss. But then--

_\--thick with smoke, she can’t breathe, but she has no choice except to run as the skittering of massive creatures behind her continues to close in--_

“--remember running,” Asha gasps, her eyes going wide. “Things were chasing me, and then--”

_\--she reaches desperately for the pale, dainty hand stretched out to her, straining as light bursts forth from her palm and--_

“--a woman?” Asha finishes, her brows furrowing as she breaks her gaze with the Orlesian woman and stares at the floor, willing herself to remember more. The meager tidbit of muddled memory replays in her mind, but no matter how desperately she wishes otherwise, it ends there.

“A woman?” the Orlesian woman echoes her, her tone skeptical.

“She reached out to me,” Asha explains, though it is not much. She can see their desire to press her for more, a welcome departure from the rage and suspicion that had greeted her--but it is not a comfort. “I don’t remember anything after that. Or before.”

Cassandra turns her back on Asha and speaks instead to her companion. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” she says, giving Asha an unkind glance over her shoulder. “I will take her to the rift.”

Asha hangs her head as Leliana leaves the room without a backward glance, and Cassandra kneels before her to remove her heavy shackles--and then to bind her hands together with rope. Her hatred of being forced into captivity--the bile that threatens to rise in her throat at the thought, the parallel between what had happened to her ancestors and what she swore, as a Dalish elf whose very name meant ‘free woman’, would never happen to her--makes it difficult to remain calm.

But she is more than this. She is more than these humans know. She is more than an elf, more than a prisoner, more than a mass murderer or whatever else they must be thinking of her. Whatever else they think to accuse her of. She is Asha’revas Lavellan of the Dalish, the proud First of her clan. She is the one they will look to for guidance once she becomes their Keeper, and she will keep them safe from those who would harm them, just as Mythal had done for her people.

But first, she needs to make it back to them. For that, she needs to stay alive. And for that, she needs to know what she has woken up to.

“What did happen?” she asks, her tone carefully measured. She is not desperate, but neither is she demanding. Perhaps something in her solemn voice resonates with Cassandra, because when her dark eyes flick up to Asha’s, there is no hatred in them. Even what anger remains is decidedly muted now.

“It will be easier to show you,” is all the reply that she gives, however, as she drags Asha to her feet and then turns away. With her hands still bound, Asha follows.

 

XXX

 

Asha’revas has felt lost more than once in her life. When she was a child and her parents had died, that was the first time she had known the sensation, among many others. When she laid awake at night in her youth, watching the stars and wondering if she was truly capable of being a leader, that was another. When Keeper Deshanna had approached her in confidence one night, just after a band of rogue templars had set upon the camp and tried--failed, blessedly--to slaughter them, and told her that she was being sent to spy on the peace talks between mages and templars, mediated by the Divine of the Chantry, that was another.

And yet all of those times amounted to nothing in comparison to how small and unsure she feels as she looks to the sky and finds a massive, sickly green rift into the Fade looking down at her from the distance. Though no hands are at her throat, Asha feels the breath choke out of her as the mark on her palm throbs with every pulse of light that flashes through the sky.

The sky, torn open by what Cassandra explained was the Breach. The sky, pouring demons into their world. The sky, with a wound that grows larger with each passing second as it threatens to consume everything.

Asha’s hands tremble. This is what had destroyed the Conclave. Killed hundreds in the blink of an eye. Killed more even now, if the situation was as dire as Cassandra spoke of it--and how could it not be? What else would warrant the reaction that she and Leliana--and those soldiers, with their unforgiving gazes and unwavering swords--had displayed towards her, the only survivor of such an event?

 _‘Why?’_ she wonders, feeling so very afraid.

A pulse rocks through her, resonating from the center of her palm at the same time that the sky flashes, viridescent lightning shooting down from the center of the Breach. A shout of pain rips from her throat as, unbidden, her left hand shoots up. Pulled by an unknown force, the mark on her palm sears and bursts with light, and Asha feels her legs buckle. She lands heavily in the snow, the force of her impact nothing more than a tickle compared to the _burning_ in the palm of her hand. Asha forces her hand into a fist, gritting her teeth and muffling a keen as the pain spikes before abruptly snuffing itself out. Even in the midst of snow and mountain chill, sweat beads on her forehead.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads,” Cassandra says, a touch breathless. Perhaps Asha is imagining it, but she thinks she can hear a flicker of the same fear that is thrumming through her blood in the other woman’s voice. “And it is killing you.”

Asha’s head shoots up, her eyes impossibly wide. _‘No--’_

“It may be the key to stopping this,” Cassandra continues, unaware--or perhaps simply uncaring--of the turmoil that her words have set off within Asha. “But there isn’t much time.”

“The key,” Asha echoes in disbelief, her voice trembling in spite of her desire to remain as hard as iron. She has no friends here; she does not want to be weak. She can't afford to be weak. “To doing what? How could it stop this?”

“It could close the Breach,” Cassandra answers. “Whether that’s possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance, however.” Her voice brooks no argument when she adds, deliberately, “And yours.”

“You still think I did this?” Asha hisses, her balled fist still trembling. Inside of it, the mark upon her hand aches. _‘And it is killing you,_ ’ Cassandra’s words echo in her mind, and she feels white-hot rage roiling in her gut. “To myself?” she spits incredulously.

“Not intentionally,” Cassandra replies smoothly, unconcerned with Asha’s ire; Asha isn’t sure whether she should find that relieving or insulting, considering the woman thinks her a mass murderer. “Something clearly went wrong.”

“And if I’m _not_ responsible?” Asha fires back.

“Someone is,” Cassandra says pointedly. “And you are our only suspect.” Her eyes harden, and she continues, “You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way.”

Asha bites back her desire to retort once more, but she knows this is not the time nor the place for arguments. Perhaps this makes sense, though the thought is a twisted one. She is a Dalish mage--someone with absolutely no place at the Conclave. She is the only survivor, and she possesses a mark on her hand that grows as the Breach does, with no memory of how any of this came to pass. Her heart sinks, and the ropes binding Asha’s hands feel tighter than ever.

“So I don’t have a choice,” she says, and her tone is as much acceptance of whatever she is about to go through as it is bitterness towards the woman who is going to put her through it.

Cassandra does not appreciate the comment. “ _None_ of us has a choice,” she replies coldly, standing and gripping Asha by the back of her robes to pull her up from the ground. She is dragged along this time, though as they walk, it becomes clear that Cassandra’s action is not intended as punishment, but as protection.

Asha realizes then that where they are--amidst tents and camps, as well as wooden buildings and a great Chantry behind her--is Haven, the small settlement that had been rediscovered along with the Temple of Sacred Ashes over a decade back when the Blight had ravaged the land. Then, it had been barren--but now, it is filled with many of the faithful who had made the pilgrimage up to witness the Conclave, history in the making.

And now these people watch her with hatred in their eyes, far more than Cassandra or Leliana had displayed. They had been restrained, but these crowds--

“Fucking knife-ear!” Asha hears someone roar over the growing din of those who have gathered to watch Cassandra march her through them as she explains that they have already decided her guilt. The slur pains her, though it is far from the first time she has heard it. She wants to be angry, but she resigns herself to knowing that anger wouldn’t help her now. She can be angry later. Later, when she has proven her innocence. Later, when the Breach and the mark are gone. Later, when she returns home to her clan and forgets all about the terror that threatens to choke her as she is marched through a crowd of angry humans who call her knife-ear, blood mage bitch, murderer, savage, beast--

“Grief is not an excuse,” she can’t stop herself from whispering. The hand at her back tightens as they come upon a great set of wooden doors that separate the path out of Haven from the path to the valley, where the Breach waits for them. Asha wonders for a moment if Cassandra will have more self-righteous words for her, but to her surprise, her grip disappears as the doors part before them. Asha glances over her shoulder and sees that Cassandra watches her with a look that is no longer unkind, though it is also not forgiving by any means.

“We lash out, like the sky,” Cassandra concedes, nodding once as they come to a stone bridge covered with more soldiers and Chantry clerics that pray over piles of covered bodies; Asha feels her stomach drop as she turns forward. Cassandra comes to stand before her, a careful arm placed upon her shoulder as a gesture to stop. “But we must think beyond ourselves, as the Divine did, until the Breach is sealed.”

Asha has nothing to say to that. In spite of the circumstances, she feels as though Cassandra meant those words to be a comfort--perhaps even a veiled apology for her behavior in the dungeon--but nothing about this situation comforts her. Her lungs breathe in the cold mountain air, wind whipping her dark locks about her face and practically cutting into her skin. She is so far from home.

And she has no way of knowing if she will ever make it back. Even when Cassandra cuts the ties that bind her, freeing Asha’s wrists from the unforgiving tightness of the ropes that had held her, Asha knows that she is not truly free. Her name is now the greatest irony of all ironies, to mark her as forever free when she is anything but in this moment. She is not a victim of whatever had happened at the Conclave--whatever had caused the explosion that destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes, killed hundreds, and is still killing more with every breath that she takes.

Asha’revas is in pain, dying as the mark spreads further and further on her palm with every pulse of the Breach. With every streak of green light that shoots through the sky, with every demon that manifests in their world from the tear in the Veil, with every dark glance shot her way when people catch sight of her pointed ears and tattooed face, she is dying. But she is not a victim. Not to them.

“There will be a trial,” Cassandra tells her, tone as soft as it has ever been with her, though that isn’t saying much. Perhaps it is because she truly believes in the words that she has spoken--that she should think beyond herself. Perhaps it is because she had seen the muted shock in Asha’s wide eyes as she had numbly stared up at the sky. Perhaps she had felt the tremor in her hands and understood her fear. “I can promise no more. Come,” she snaps, turning away and striding forward. The softness--if it could have been called that--is gone, replaced by the same frosty tone that she’d been speaking with earlier as she adds, “It is not far.”

Asha swallows hard, realizing then the magnitude of the danger that awaits her as she glances up at the Breach--a thing she is meant to close, which will either declare her innocence or confirm her guilt in everyone’s eyes. Perhaps not. She is not a victim--she is a prisoner. She is not Asha’revas Lavellan, First of her clan--she is a prisoner. She is not a free woman--she is a prisoner.

A prisoner with no choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not every bit of dialogue will follow the game's so exactly, though this is a novelization of my Inquisitor's experience, so things will match at times. If you made it this far, thank you very much for reading! If you lose interest, I appreciate you giving it a shot. If you want to read more, you're enabling me and I thank you for that. Haha, in all seriousness, thank you for reading! I hope you come back for more.
> 
> Next time: A rift, new companions, a (dashing) commander--and a judgment.


	2. Rift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha can't determine what rankles her more--the fact that Cassandra knows her name but still calls her a prisoner, or the downright frosty tone in which the commander speaks to her when he meets her gaze and says, “Is it? I hope they’re right about you.” His hazel eyes narrow, flashing when he adds, deliberately, “We’ve lost a lot of good people getting you here.”
> 
> Asha’s tone is equally as cold when she meets his disapproving gaze with one of her own and replies, “You’ll lose a lot more unless I get to the Breach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeet. I'm sorry there's so much to set up. Thanks a bunch for your hits and your kudos; I'm super honored that you're reading this.
> 
> Edit: mood music is now relevantly quoted at the start of each chapter instead of listed in the notes. It's not necessary to listen to, but music is a heavy influence on my writing, so I feel like it could enhance the experience. Also I like sharing what inspires me. :> Enjoy!

_"I know there's been stigma 'round me,_  
_I know you heard things about me."_  
**\-- 'All I Know' by The Weeknd**

* * *

 

Despite the fact that the situation at hand is beginning to turn steadily in her own favor, Asha remains wary as she and Cassandra travel through the shadows of a destroyed valley.

Their first encounter with demons comes far quicker than anticipated as she and Cassandra make their way towards the forward camp that has been set up at the halfway point between the path to Haven and the scorched crater where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had once stood. Asha’s heart had leapt into her throat when a massive chunk of debris from the Breach had shot down and decimated the stone bridge they had been crossing, stopping just short of hitting Asha through what was either divine luck or misfortune. Her body seized as she fell, bracing herself against the harsh impact of the ice below and the ripple of wild magic sizzling through the air.

She hadn’t yet decided which of the two she was in that moment--lucky or unfortunate. She had been inclined to believe the latter at first, when Cassandra charged forward to deal with a demon and the inky ice before her unprotected self began to bubble and warp with sickly green energy. A fizzle of raw power from the Fade skittered across Asha’s spine, and she knew the demon was coming. _‘Run,’_ she had thought, knowing that Cassandra would not pursue her until it was already too late. But the thought sickened her as soon as it crossed her mind, and then her gaze had fallen on a battered, iron staff not far from where she lay.

When she grasps it at last, it is like having a limb awkwardly reattached. But even so, with the unfamiliar heft of metal resting firmly in her hands, Asha can’t help the soft gasp of delight that passes her lips as she turns to face the demon that has materialized before her.

Asha can’t recall a time when magic hadn’t felt like a part of her. She knew that she was fortunate--not every mage was so lucky in their upbringing as she. She also knew that even the best of mages must always remain vigilant; her Keeper had drilled this most important lesson into her mind ever since her magic first manifested. But those thoughts are not at the forefront of her mind as she turns from the demon and extends her arm, whirling the staff around her in a wide arc as she calls forth a storm that has been building within her from the moment that she’d woken with swords pointed at her throat. It is there, raw power just beneath the surface of her skin--and it would obey her.

Where her staff carves through the air, lightning follows--sparks zing through the air and burn through the demon’s rancid flesh. It lets out an unholy shriek and lunges for her, but Asha spins gracefully out of its grasp and sweeps her staff out once more--and then again, and again until there is nothing left of the creature that did not belong in their world.

Keeper Deshanna had once tried to encourage Asha to cast with the proper form, long ago--back straight, arms taut, nothing but the staff twirling as magical energy surged through it. Asha had politely refused; she was not a tree rooted to the ground. She was the river that cut through a forest, flowing from one motion to the next, dancing with the staff as warriors did with the blade. The motions still come as naturally to her as breathing, and it is only when Asha stands still that she realizes how happy she is to have a weapon in her hands once more. How relieved.

“Drop your weapon!” Cassandra bellows; Asha’s breath of relief catches tight in her throat, a hard knot of fear forming in her gut once again as she looks forward and realizes that the other woman is rapidly advancing on her, her demon slain and sword still drawn. “Now!”

Asha’s fingers flex over the staff, and it is a calculated decision to straighten her spine and harden her gaze, remaining firm where she stands. She brings the staff out by her side, settling the end firmly onto the ice beneath them and feeling her mana surge within her. “Do you really think I need a staff to be dangerous?” she asks matter-of-factly. Her tone is careful; it is not a threat. But her posture, open though it is, conveys a silent warning.

 _’Test me,’_ she thinks, watching Cassandra warily as the other woman’s narrowed eyes scrutinize her. _‘I will fight back.’_ She has nothing to lose but her life, and it seems that Falon’Din might already be at her back, waiting to guide her past the Veil.

But whatever fight Cassandra had readied herself for goes ignored as the other woman’s shoulders slump, her sword and shield dropping to her side. A pregnant pause passes between them before Cassandra sighs, resigned, and sheathes her sword once more. “I cannot protect you,” she admits quietly. “And I cannot expect you to remain defenseless.

Asha is not an unfair person--or at least, she likes to believe that she is not. After all, Mythal was the goddess of justice as well as her chosen patron deity. She did not exact vengeance without cause--and neither would Asha. She doesn’t say a word to Cassandra, but her posture relaxes, and she tucks the staff carefully upon her back. The next time a demon attacks, she will be ready, and she is satisfied with that for now.

Cassandra appears to feel the same, turning away to continue leading Asha onwards. But then, she pauses once more and turns back, her gaze indecipherable. “I should remember you did not attempt to run,” she says quietly.

Asha chooses not to tell her that she had considered it, if only briefly.

 

XXX

 

Asha had not expected the sensation of what it was to seal a rift with the mark on her hand--indeed, she hadn’t expected to be able to seal them at all. The march to the forward camp had felt like a steady walk to death, not hope. And yet, there she was. And yet, the mark had worked--or rather, she hopes that this is what its purpose is even as the Breach continues to widen and the pain continues to spread across her hand and up her arm.

“It appears you hold the key to our salvation,” the elf Solas had said, an enigmatic smile playing about his lips as he had folded his hands and scrutinized her. Asha couldn’t help but bristle, if only momentarily.

 _“I’m not anyone’s salvation,”_ she'd wanted to say, her hand aching at the phantom pain of enormous energy pouring forth from it to thread around the edges of a rift, just before she pulled and sealed. It still hurt despite the progress, the revelation--after all, the rift that she and Cassandra had happened upon to meet with Solas and a dwarf called Varric was far smaller in magnitude than the one she was expected to seal.

But Asha had said nothing so contentious. Though she felt relief at the sight of another elf--a mage, at that--and a fellow prisoner despite the fact that Cassandra seemed eager to rid herself of Varric’s presence, it was Cassandra herself who had the power. And it was Cassandra herself who Asha remained wary of. That didn’t change, even as their unexpected band traveled together through the rest of the desolate valley.

The bone-deep chill of the mountains does not bother Asha so much as the sight of the Breach’s destruction does. The already uneven terrain has grown downright perilous in the wake of the blast, chunks of the high cliffs scattered about their path as a result of the unstable energy pouring from the Breach. Asha shivers as they make their way past rocky banks and the occasional blazing wreckage of dwellings that have since been abandoned.

“So,” Varric begins, puffing heavily as he clambers up a particularly steep path. He cuts his eyes at Asha, a curious glimmer in their gaze. “You know who we are--but who are you?” He gives Cassandra a pointed look. “Besides public enemy number one.”

Asha can’t help the wry smile that touches her lips. “Lavellan,” she murmurs, her skin prickling as they continue to climb; the air grows thick, her lungs feeling as though they might freeze. Another rift is near. “Asha’revas,” she adds, glancing at the dwarf. At his bemused smile, she says, “Asha for short is fine.”

“Asha,” he repeats, as though he is testing the sound of it. He nods once and then asks, “So, _are_ you innocent?”

“I don’t remember what happened,” she replies curtly, very aware of the way that Cassandra’s shoulders stiffen, as does her grip on her sword.

Varric hums thoughtfully. “That’ll get you every time. Should have spun a story.”

Cassandra scoffs, shooting him a disapproving glare. “That’s what _you_ would have done,” she hisses.

Varric opens his mouth to respond, but whatever flippant remark he might’ve had ready is interrupted by a bright burst of light that pours from the mark with a sizzle; Asha’s breath catches in her throat as she freezes, feet digging deeply in the snow while she rides out the wave of pain with clenched teeth. Her eyes water from the shock of it; it grows harder and harder to keep her composure, now.

“Shit,” Varric breathes, eyeing her glassy eyes and trembling hand. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine,” Asha lies as she forces herself to take one step forward, and then another. They are nearly at the crest of the hill, just before the bridge where the camp had been set. She is so close; she will not succumb to whatever is happening her just yet. “There’s something coming,” she says--a warning. Her sensitive ears hear soldiers shouting.

“A rift,” Solas says as they arrive; it is there, an eerie crystal of otherworldly energy suspended just before the heavy doors that led to the camp.

As if in response to Asha’s suddenly close proximity, it flares to life at the same moment as the mark on her hand, spirits streaming out from the tear in the Fade to manifest before them. Asha draws her staff once again, taking a breath to center herself even as she summons a barrier to blanket them. She will remain in control, as long as she has her wits about her. If she has any hope of getting out of this alive, she will need a level head.

The rift is blessedly short work with a full party at her back, however. Within minutes, her palm threads wild energy through the opening once again before she makes a fist and draws it taut, sealing the second rift. Even Solas, who has spent much of their trek watching her with a detached air about him, comments approvingly on the accomplishment. Relief at the knowledge that the first time had been no mere fluke swells in Asha’s chest, lifting her spirits.

That lasts all of two minutes, until she is forced to endure the biting and derisive remarks of one Chancellor Roderick, a Chantry cleric who’d had the fortune to not be anywhere near the Temple of Sacred Ashes when it had been destroyed.

Fortune for himself, Asha thinks. Certainly not for her--not as she stands there in stony-faced silence, enduring his branding of her as a criminal who deserves to hang. Even Cassandra cannot escape his vitriol; in nearly the same breath as he demands Asha’s death, he brands her a thug. Despite the fact that the situation grows increasingly dire with every second that passes, their argument builds as they exchange verbal blows regarding how to proceed--both with sealing the rift beneath the Breach, and with how to deal with her.

Her stomach churns. Though she desperately wants to retaliate, to sneer at them and wonder aloud if their attitudes toward her have more to do with the fact that she is an elf and a mage than any other factor at hand, this is not the time for that. Not when her hand has begun to steadily burn the closer they all get to the Breach. Not when she can hear the fighting up the mountain--the shouts of soldiers and the screeches of shades.

Unable to stand their bickering any longer, Asha bites out, “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here.”

Roderick rounds on her, his eyes blazing and face heated. “You shouldn’t even _be_ here!” he roars, and then he turns his anger back on Cassandra. In spite of Asha’s scorn, it seems that nothing will stop them from trying to have it out on this mountain even as people die.

Asha can’t stand it. Here she waits, brought into this situation by force and entirely alone in maintaining her innocence. As kind and easygoing as Varric seems, Asha can’t call him a true ally; she doesn’t know him, and he doesn't know her. Cassandra’s attitude towards her would remain unchanged until she can prove without a doubt that none of this had been her doing. And as for Solas, though she had attempted to extend her hand in friendship, as they were both of the same people, it is more than clear that he does not share those feelings.

Here, on a mountain camp full of soldiers, people of the Chantry, and people who are simply trying to help, she is alone. Connected to nobody and nothing--save for the Breach.

It chooses that exact moment to flare to life, a heavy rumble echoing through the heavens as energy shoots through the clouds like lightning--and Asha cries out, clenching her hand as tightly as she can when light bursts from the mark once again. She nearly doubles over with the pain of it, her arm violently seizing as the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. The air around her crackles, and the pain surges white-hot once before dulling back down to its steady burn. The acrid odor of burnt flesh stings her nostrils.

When Asha can draw herself back upright once more, her light eyes meet Cassandra’s dark ones as the warrior woman stands before her, gaze intense. “How do you think we should proceed?” she asks.

Asha can’t bite back the huff of incredulous, almost delirious laughter that escapes her. “Now you’re asking me what _I_ think?”

“You have the mark,” Solas points out matter-of-factly, and Asha shoots him a cold glance until she realizes that his tone is a subtle warning. She can’t afford to lose her temper--not when she has a power that they need. 

It isn’t leverage for freedom, but Asha remembers then that they need her. Regardless of their treatment, they needed her the moment she sealed the very first rift she encountered. With her, there is a chance that all of this can be stopped before even more damage is done. Without her, death is a certainty. For everybody.

Without answering, Asha looks to the paths ahead. In one direction is a clearly trodden mountain path, leading directly to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There, the soldiers of the valley can accompany her and their party as they charge towards the Breach. It's direct, but dangerous.

In another direction, there is a pass that leads through mining tunnels dug through the side of the mountain. Even through steadily falling snow, Asha can see the rickety scaffolding wrapped around it, leading to a secret path to the temple. But there too lurks unknown danger. And they would be alone in facing it, should something go wrong.

 _‘You are the First of your clan,’_ she reminds herself, her heart aching at the thought of the people she has left behind. _‘A leader.’_

If she wanted to see them again, she would need to make a choice. Asha looks back to Cassandra, her gaze unwavering. “We charge,” she says. “I can feel it in my hand--I won’t survive long enough for a trial,” she says pointedly, glancing at Roderick. Ignoring his sneer, she finishes, “Whatever happens, happens now.”

To Asha’s surprise, Cassandra’s eyes light up in approval as the two of them stare at each other for one more brief moment. She nods then, turning away to instruct Leliana to gather what remained of their forces.

“The commander is already near the temple,” Leliana says, motioning in the direction of the path they would take. “You will have his unit’s support ahead; the rest of the soldiers will flank you.”

“Go,” Cassandra murmurs, and Asha feels her heart leap into her throat at the realization that this is all truly happening. Whatever fate awaits her, she can feel it looming.

She turns away to walk with Cassandra when she hears it. A tired scoff from Roderick as they pass, and he warns, “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.”

Asha sneaks a glance over her shoulder at Cassandra. Everything about the woman makes her intimidating--her strong gait, her angular face, the deep scar cutting down across the slope of her cheek. And yet, in that moment, her eyes slide shut and her brow furrows. If Asha had not been looking, she would have missed it. Cassandra appears… uncertain.

Asha swallows hard when the other woman draws up by her shoulder, matching her pace up the mountain. Her slim fingers curl around the chilled surface of the staff she had picked up, and for a moment, she recalls the way Cassandra had spoken to her before, understanding her need to defend herself and appreciating her decision not to run when she had the chance. Doing so would have made Asha feel like a coward, but she can be grateful for the momentary approval all the same.

“It’s not on anybody’s head but mine,” she whispers, and Cassandra’s gaze snaps to meet hers. Asha’s eyes darken under the overcast light, and her voice is barely audible over the din of soldiers marching to follow them--but her sincerity shines through. “I alone made the choice,” Asha says.

She leaves Cassandra with no chance to respond before she surges ahead, her small frame striding up the mountain slope with great effort. Asha has no desire to talk further, and she suspects that after dealing with the Chancellor, Cassandra feels much the same. For now, all that is left to move forward and fight.

“There’s another rift ahead,” she breathes when they near the top of the path; high above them in the distance, great spires of rock jut out from where the Temple of Sacred Ashes once stood. The explosion that Cassandra had spoken of had clearly cratered the area, the earth beneath its former foundation bursting out from the force of it. The sounds of fighting grow louder, and Asha can feel her blood thrumming with magical energy.

She allows Cassandra to motion for her to pause while a few of the soldiers that flank them move up ahead to lead the charge; it would do them no good for Asha to rush headfirst into danger when she is their only hope for succeeding at the task of reaching the temple--or rather, what is left of it. But Asha regrets it the instant that a streak of energy, so bright it is nearly blinding, shoots down from the Breach and connects with the group of soldiers. A shout escapes her as she watches rock and blood scatter at the spot, what is left of their bodies flying from the force of the explosion like a child’s doll.

“Move!” Asha yells, charging forward and throwing up a barrier of spiritual magic that will not easily be pierced. “Solas, cover the rest of the soldiers!” she orders, forcing herself to not look down at the blood and corpses that she steps over to reach the rift ahead. The unit that Leliana had mentioned back at the forward camp could hardly be called such; there is nothing more to greet them than a handful of men and women futilely beating back a wave of demons. The rift ahead pulses, light streaming from it as an unholy screech fills the air, and two tall, spindly creatures materialize before them.

“What in the Maker’s name is that?!” screams a soldier, and Asha shudders. There is nothing but pure fear in their voice, and as she looks at the demons, she knows the reason. Terrors stand before them, their flesh appearing to melt from their heads as their mouths stretch wide in gaping maws that release shrieks fresh out of a nightmare.

In one fluid move, Asha brings up her staff and slams its blade down onto the stone beneath her feet, calling the storm; lightning crackles through the air before rocketing forward and arcing towards the demons. They shriek and stand stunned for a moment, and Asha uses the opportunity to bring a hand up and summon another barrier, watching it ripple over the soldiers ahead.

“A mage!” one of them calls, and Asha bristles at the fact that the fear in their voice somehow sounds greater when announcing her presence than it had when the demons had appeared. She opens her mouth to shout back, to tell them to look forward and fight, but she never gets the chance.

“Focus on the _demons_ before you get yourself killed, Pellane!” another man snarls, a Ferelden accent thick in their anger; Asha remains towards the back of the field with Varric and Solas as Cassandra and the rest of the soldiers run to meet the unit and cut down the terrors.

Away from the thick of melee, Asha lets her magic course through her blood as she takes hold of her staff in both hands and whirls, a barrage of energy spiraling forth from her and connecting bit by bit with the demons. Every swing of her staff is deliberate, one motion flowing gracefully into the next in a battle-dance that is as much a part of her as her magic; beside her, Varric lets out a low whistle as she sends forth a burst of lightning that cracks the air and stings their nostrils with the sharp scent of it.

“Remind me to stay on your good side,” he quips as one terror falls, its flesh scorched before it disappears into the rift altogether. The other terror quickly meets the same fate at the blades of Cassandra and the Fereldan who’d shouted earlier. Above them, the rift ruptures.

“Run fast if you don’t,” Asha remarks, a faint smirk playing about the corners of her mouth. His answering chuckle is a relief. She gives in to the magnetic tug exerted on her hand and exposes her mark to the rift, letting the energy of the Fade burst forth to meet her. She grits her teeth through the burn, waiting until the pull on her palm is almost too great to overcome before she jerks back; the edges of the rift fuse, flashing brightly before leaving nothing but empty sky where it once hovered.

“You are becoming quite proficient at this,” Solas murmurs approvingly as she walks forward to meet Cassandra. Despite his earlier standoffishness, Asha affords him a grateful smile.

“Lady Cassandra,” the Fereldan calls, and Asha glances up to see that the voice belongs to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a rather impressive set of armor. She pauses, watching as he meets Cassandra where she stands and says, “You’ve managed to close the rift; well done.”

Asha hears Varric chuckle ruefully as she slowly raises a brow; Cassandra glances back at her just in time to catch the expression, and she lets out an uneasy breath, shaking her head. “Do not thank me, Commander,” she says, turning back to the man even as she gestures to Asha. “This was the prisoner’s doing.”

Asha can’t determine what rankles her more--the fact that Cassandra knows her name but still calls her a prisoner, or the downright frosty tone in which the commander speaks to her when he meets her gaze and says, “Is it? I hope they’re right about you.” His hazel eyes narrow, flashing when he adds, deliberately, “We’ve lost a lot of good people getting you here."

Asha’s tone is equally as cold when she meets his disapproving gaze with one of her own and replies, “You’ll lose a lot more unless I get to the Breach.” She’s had more than her fill of this; though his dislike of her is far more muted than anyone else’s had been, she refuses to be cowed by it.

An awkward silence stretches between them for a long moment, until the commander finally blinks and looks away from her. “Indeed,” he says, tone clipped. Rather than spend another moment on her, he looks to Cassandra and tells her that the path to the temple is clear. Swallowing her own irritation, Asha silently strides past him, headed to the edge of the small ridge that separates where they had fought from where the temple had once stood. It is he who flinches away from her when their shoulders brush.

At the ridge, Asha glances back just in time to see the rest of the party moving to join her. Behind them, the soldiers fall back to hold their positions at the end of the mountain path, covering them from whatever other threat might emerge. Asha watches as a soldier limps forward, their right leg a bloody mess where the claws of the terrors had clearly gored them. The commander bends next to them, slinging their arm about his shoulders and carefully bearing their weight the rest of the way.

 _‘Well,’_ Asha thinks, a touch more rueful than she likes at the disparity between his treatment of her and his treatment of that nameless soldier. _‘At least he isn’t heartless.’_

 

XXX

 

It speaks to her when it emerges from the undulating light that pours from the rift; the great, hulking frame of a pride demon looms before them with electricity arcing from the razor-sharp points of its horns. Asha grips her staff so tightly that the her bones creak, fingers trembling. Despite the fact that Leliana and her archers have crowded themselves on the ridge of the crater--the origin of the explosion that annihilated the Conclave--and their arrows struck with precision, the demon had laughed as they bounced off like feeble twigs.

“It feeds on the power from rift,” Cassandra bellows, ducking behind her shield as the demon sends a powerful volley of energy in her direction. Her gaze snaps to Asha, and she calls, “We can draw its attention; you must get close enough to disrupt it!”

Asha’s gaze remains on the demon, the prickle of its power zinging across the nape of her neck. Her hair begins to stand on end. Its voice in her head does not speak in the common tongue, nor does it speak Elvhen--and yet, she understands what it offers her all the same. The taste of lightning in her mouth transforms into the sweetness of the wilds, and the scent of the forest after a storm envelops her like a calming embrace. For a brief moment, Asha finds her eyes sliding shut as she relishes the familiar feeling.

And then, the soft warmth of Asha’s memories of home surge violently within her, burning their way through her heart to manifest in her hands; she sears the hardy surface of her staff as she dances out of the grasp of the demon. She rains fire upon its outstretched hand and snarls when she hears it roar.

She roars back. “I am not a fool who makes deals with demons!” As reality crashes back to her senses--her ears pop at the rush of sound from the few soldiers who fight by her side, and from Cassandra who still shouts at her--Asha bares her teeth and wills herself to wield the power of Elgar’nan in her hands. Flames lick at the ground where she steps, dancing away from the crackling strikes of the demon she has rebuffed.

If she ever goes home, Asha knows that it won’t be any time soon. The demon had made a mistake in thinking that it could manipulate her with the promise of enough power to escape these people--people who would undoubtedly hunt her to whatever corner of the world she might wish to run to. And its presumption--no, its manipulation of her feelings--ignites a rage within her strong enough to burn the earth beneath her feet to ashes all over again.

“Cassandra!” Leliana’s voice echoes over the edge of the high ridge that she stands upon with her archers. An artificial storm--the pride demon’s doing--rumbles overhead, but her words are still clear. “The commander brings reinforcements!”

Asha feels the vibration of boots on the ground behind her before she hears it; not removing her gaze from the demon that steadily prowls before her, an ear twitches in Cassandra’s direction. At last, she has stopped shouting. Her attention has turned instead to the commander and his troops. “This demon wields lightning; mind its attacks, unless you wish to be cooked alive in your armor!”

In response to the caution, the demon rears up and strikes forward; Asha draws a sharp breath and summons a barrier that even its thick ropes of lightning cannot cleave in two. Even as the ground splits in front of her, Asha--and everybody else--remains unharmed. Her breath comes in heated pants as the magic fizzles away and says, “Solas, please cover the soldiers. The rift is affecting me; your barriers would be far more stable.”

The sensation of cool, sturdy energy melting over her form in protection is the only response that she gets before the demon charges forth, and they all scatter. Asha’revas makes the choice to not concern herself with the way that the commander conducts himself or his troops in this battle, nor how Leliana orders about her archers. As wary as she is of them, they are capable people. As for her own small party, she trusts that they will hold their own in drawing the demon’s attention long enough for her to disrupt--and hopefully, seal--the rift.

But the demon is not so easily swayed; its attention has been entirely on her from the first, and Asha is forced to remain quick-footed as she darts about the battlefield, deflecting attacks from it and its summoned shades left and right. Every time the tug of the rift calls her palm towards it, lightning cuts through the air towards her, or a lesser creature attempts to rake its claws across her body. Despite her strength and knowledge, Asha cannot run forever--certainly not now when the mark on her hand burns her flesh and saps her strength. At one point, she falls to her knees, caught off balance by a bolt of energy that seared her side when it struck. Her breath seizes in her throat, choked and furious as the world spins, and the screech of steel connecting with talons rings sharply above her.

She glances up, her eyes weary and dark like bruised flesh. Gold flashes in her field of vision, and it takes her a moment to realize that the commander is standing above her, his shield positioned to block any further attacks even as his sword cleaves through the demon that had nearly ripped her body apart. Ichor spatters her face as the creature falls, but she doesn't flinch away from his gaze when he turns it on her.

“Can you stand?” he asks, his Fereldan accent a heavy rumble in her sharp ears. He has no free hand to offer her, not that she would have taken it anyway.

Asha’s gaze flicks past him; Cassandra, Solas, and the majority of the reinforcements are doing their best to batter the pride demon into submission, though they do not appear to be succeeding. Varric remains closer to the ridge than he is to the rift, carefully aiming with his hefty crossbow and picking off the minor demons that have been drawn from the Fade one by one with a handful of other archers. Her hand pulses hotly, drawing a hiss from her lips.

“Get back,” she warns him, piercing the dirt with her staff and using it to pull herself to her feet. Her hand shoots forward as the commander wisely ducks back and gives her a wide berth, and Asha grits her teeth as the acidic light of the rift ripples and bursts in the air before her. Her palm flashes, and she hears the demon groan as the source of its otherworldly power is finally disrupted.

“Now!” Cassandra urges from across the battlefield. “Before another demon comes through, seal the rift!”

Asha wants to flinch away. Just for a second--one terrible, cowardly second that is most unworthy of her. Unworthy of everything she is. Perhaps it was who these people had forced her to become that brought forth the ugly desire to draw back; after all, they had captured her. Chained her. Pointed blades at her throat, slurs at her back, cold looks at her face. Her ears, her vallaslin--her hands. Her magic. They had made her a prisoner, vilified. Perhaps they’d had cause then; after all, it had been her own declaration of innocence levied against the damning evidence of her survival when hundreds had not been so lucky.

But she is not a coward. She is Asha’revas Lavellan, First of her clan, representative of the best of her people. And the best of her people would not flinch away--would not run and hide from their duty. And her duty in that moment is to put her palm to the sky and seal the rift.

The mark on her hand sizzles and then bursts, sharp rays of light slicing through the air as the sky rumbles and the ruins of the temple groan ominously around her. Asha stands alone, feeling her arm lock as energy ruptures from the rift and surges down to meet the mark in the center of her palm; she can’t hear anything above the roaring in her ears, but she can feel her face stretch into a rictus of pain, a long scream torn from her lungs as she falls to her knees in the dirt and ash. Her hand, her arm--everything feels as though it is wreathed in green fire.

She hopes that something of her will remain when the pull of the rift on her mark is too much; she draws her fist back with all the power she has left within her, praying that there will at least be a body to return to the ground. And then, Asha hopes that if her clan will not be able to bury her, perhaps somebody else would--

A massive surge of Fade energy rockets from where the rift had once stood, up and up to the center of the Breach that gapes at them from the heavens. The sky is aflame, and all Asha sees is blistering white light--right before she sees nothing at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this, but feel free to tell me if I accidentally fucked my tenses; I did that a lot when I was writing, lmao. Next up: the Inquisition is formed, and Asha doesn't care much for titles.


	3. Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Cullen finds himself struck by just how small the elf woman is--she who holds the power to seal rifts, and perhaps even the Breach, in the palm of her hand. The image of her standing at the rift had been burned into his mind for hours afterwards. She had stood before a pride demon easily more than three times her size, with her palms to the sky as her magic had poured over all of them like water. Even as the demon had carved the ground before her into pieces with its power, she had not flinched, and her barrier had not been penetrated. That moment had awed and unsettled him in equal measure.
> 
> Guilt gnaws at his gut for the latter, and for every time that he instinctively wants to rip his gaze away whenever she looks at him. Her irises are the color of a dusky sky. His hands shake every time the sight of them shocks him, reminds him of things he knows he would never--could never--forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would characterizations be easier if I?? Was drunk???
> 
> Anyways, this chapter was delightful and infuriating. Mostly delightful. I think.

_"When a good man and a good woman_ _can't find the good in each other,_  
_then a good man and a good woman_ _will bring out the worst in each other."_  
**\-- 'The Bad in Each Other' by Feist**

* * *

 

Though Falon’Din had not guided her into the Beyond, Asha’revas was most certain that death would not be far when she found herself summoned to the chantry upon waking. She hadn’t been granted even a moment of relief to find herself breathing and whole before sour dread curdled in the pit of her gut once more. It did not abate--in fact, it grew stronger as she tread the chilled paths of Haven on unsteady legs, hearing the most unsettling whispers at her back.

 _‘Herald of Andraste,'_ she had thought, the shadows deep under her eyes as she wondered if she was being mocked. She might not have followed the Chant of Light, but she knew enough to remember that Andraste had been executed.

And yet, she had arrived to hear the sounds of Cassandra--harsh, angular, downright frightening Cassandra--steadfastly maintaining her innocence. Even in the face of Roderick’s spitting ire.

The tight band of fear loosened its grip on Asha’s lungs, if only slightly. But then--

“As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

Asha gapes at Cassandra. “The Inquisition?” she whispers incredulously, her gaze almost frantically flicking to Leliana by her side. When she sees no doubt, only steely dedication, she continues, “You would start a holy war?”

Cassandra’s eyes narrow, but her voice is not unkind when she quietly points out, “We are already at war, Lady Lavellan.” Her gaze flicks down to Asha’s hand. “Its mark is already upon you. As to whether or not the war is holy… that depends on what we discover.”

“I am a Dalish elf,” Asha hisses. She stands ramrod straight, doing her best to keep her voice from shaking with disgust. She is a leader of her people--she would remain diplomatic. She had to. “Forgive me if I am not keen on the idea of fighting on behalf of a body of worshippers who nearly wiped out and subjugated my people once and would happily do so again.”

It is Leliana who speaks next, her scrutiny so sharp it might cut glass. “We are not the Chantry. And you are no longer a prisoner. You can go if you wish.”

“ _That_ is a lie,” Asha counters, a wry huff of laughter escaping her. Leliana tips her head in acknowledgement, the porcelain veneer of her expression unmoved even in the face of Asha’s perceptiveness.

“Many still think that you are guilty of what happened at the Conclave,” Cassandra says. “The Inquisition can protect you, but only if you are with us.” A beat, and then softly, as though she is trying to find commonality in this, “You cannot pretend as though this has not changed you.”

That strikes Asha more than she is willing to let on. She lets her gaze fall to the thickly-bound book that the other woman had lain on the table before her. A writ from the late Divine Justinia, she had said, declaring the necessity--and the authority--of the Inquisition.

Despite what far too many humans would have been happy to believe, she is not uneducated merely because she is a nomad. She is not unfamiliar with humans or the world that they live in--what they have where her own clan went without. Keeper Deshanna had always exercised caution in dealing with them, as did they all, but they’d been fortunate. Been friendly. They had rested their aravels closer to the forests that bordered villages and cities rather than deeper within, away. They had traded items and knowledge with human merchants.

Her Keeper’s words echo faintly in her mind. _‘Whatever happens, we will be forever changed.’_ In the dim lighting of this back room of the chantry, Asha’s eyes are surely luminescent--one of many obvious differences between herself and the human women standing across from her. It clearly unnerves Cassandra to meet her gaze directly--but still, she does.

“I haven’t acted as though this hasn’t changed me,” Asha speaks then, softly. She knew nothing of what waited for her from this moment on, but she would endeavor to not fear it. She would conduct herself like the leader she had worked for so much of her life to be. “I only want to be honest with you.”

Perhaps the one she could be, still. Once this was all over. Once the Breach was well and truly sealed, and she could cross the sea and return to her clan with her head held high. Worthy of their devotion. Worthy of bearing the weight of their burdens and needs. Worthy of embodying all that Mythal, Protector and All-Mother, surely must have been when she reigned--before all of their gods went silent.

Asha takes a deep, steadying breath, filling her lungs with cold and calm. “I think honesty would be vital, if we are to work together.” One brow quirks high, the tattoos on her forehead stretching with the motion. “Unless you want me to be difficult?”

Leliana’s lips twitch at their corners, but she remains silent even as her eyes glimmer with mirth. It is Cassandra who rounds the table and, without hesitation, extends her gloved hand. “Help us fix this before it’s too late,” she says, sounding kinder than she ever has.

Asha clasps her hand in a firm grip, nodding once. Asha faintly recalls the feel of Cassandra’s harsh grip on the front of her robes, shaking her and sneering that she was a liar, a murderer. Asha swallows hard and banishes the memory from the forefront of her mind. As Leliana said, she was a prisoner no longer. She could see that fact reflected faintly in Cassandra’s eyes as the woman looks at her now with something that is far closer to hope than suspicion.

It is a welcome change, and Asha takes comfort in that, if nothing else.

 

XXX

 

Haven, despite its status as only a small settlement on the mountainside, feels to Asha as if it holds more activity than any city she has been through in recent memory. Perhaps it is the thoughts of home that make her feel, at times, so small in what seems a sea of so many--her clan held far less people than the amount that walked Haven’s paths.

Like the path in front of her cabin. _Hers._

“Is that wise?” she had asked when Cassandra had given her leave to return to the place she had awakened, citing it as her personal quarters.

“You will have guards stationed outside at all times; Commander Cullen has already arranged it,” Cassandra had said. Her mouth tightened in a thin line, and she had quickly added, “For your protection, of course. Not because he--I--not because any of us think--”

Asha hadn’t managed to stifle her snort of amusement. “I can tell the difference between concern over me being in danger and concern over me being _a_ danger, Cassandra.”

Cassandra’s cheeks went ruddy. “Of course.”

“I only meant--” Asha had paused then, glancing out at the village before her. Campfires in front of encampments crackled merrily even in daylight, their heat vital as the bitter wind swept down from the Frostback Mountains. Her heart had squeezed painfully in her chest, stuttering her words as she tried to gather them at her lips. “There are so many in tents, sleeping in thin bedrolls out in the cold. I, at least, have known less than that in my life. It hardly seems fair that they crowd a campfire while I have a cabin.”

Cassandra had looked stunned, though the reasons for that were unclear. She cleared her throat a touch uncomfortably and then confessed, “You were kept in the Chantry before you awoke. It was not long before the first attempt on your life, and less than that before the second. A private cabin with a guard is more than fair--it is the safest option, my lady.”

Asha’s mouth twisted, her ears flattening back against her skull. “That’s--unnecessary,” she had muttered, trying not to sound unkind. “Lavellan is fine. Or even Asha.”

Cassandra nodded stiffly but didn’t use any familiarity when, before departing, she’d said, “At the very least, enjoy the privacy. I imagine it is welcome.”

That it was--or rather, it would have been. But Asha can’t shake the feeling of eyes on the back of her head. Not when she is alone in her cabin with nothing but herbs for company, not when she sits outside just before dawn breaks and all is quiet, and certainly not as she walks through Haven feeling more useless than she had expected to feel now that no rift called her attention. Though many watch and whisper while she moves about, none make any attempt to speak to her.

That is fine, though. Asha would be fine. Perhaps she has no privacy, but a sort of solitude--for now, at least--is a relief. If she has nothing to do but walk the paths of Haven, familiarizing herself with the settlement, that is enough for now. She doesn’t yet feel comfortable enough to head into the cozy tavern that sits near the center of the settlement, nor the apothecary on the far side--though her hands itch to crush herbs and mix poultices when she passes by it and catches the cool, fresh scent of elfroot on the wind.

She certainly isn’t comfortable enough to go into the chantry without being summoned by Cassandra. She does, however, have the decent timing to pass by as a thin crowd gathers out front--Asha frowns when she realizes that they are watching the back of the commander as he marches to the great doors with a hammer and the Inquisition’s official declaration in his hands. Through the bewildered mumbles and whispers, she wonders exactly how much those who had made the pilgrimage to the Conclave understood about what was going to happen now.

One man clearly does--and if the vicious glower that Roderick gives her when he turns away from the chantry and passes by is any indication, he obviously considers it a disaster of the highest proportions. _‘Next to the Breach, perhaps,’_ Asha thinks wryly, watching him go.

She turns and finds herself face-to-face with Commander Cullen, blinking hard in the winter light that gleams brightly off his armor. If the look on his face is any indication, he hadn’t expected to run into her either.

It is only a moment that passes between them, but Asha takes the opportunity to study him as much as she can; her eyes are as sharp as her mind, and she takes stock of the fact that he cuts a rather proud figure, fitting of his title. The man is a solid wall of rough, dark leather laid under shining, sharp obsidian plate, and burgundy cotton trimmed with gold draped above that. As he moves to fold his hands behind his back, his gauntlets--and their Templar insignia--catch the morning light.

Asha frowns, and suddenly his demeanor towards her when they met on the mountain stings a great deal more. The lack of a weight on her back where a staff should have been prickles, and the sight of the sword on his hip makes the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end.

“Herald,” he says, soft enough that only her ears can catch it over the sounds of the crowd behind him. His eyes are almost gold in the light.

“Lavellan,” she corrects him, a bit too bitingly. Her eyes slide shut, and her breath sticks sharply in her throat like a knife.

 _“Stay away from templars,”_ she had said. Her Keeper had warned. But there are templars in Haven. Not very many, but they are there. They keep to the neat encampment of tents--mock-barracks--out by the stables, and she rarely ventures by them.

Had he brought them? Is he--?

“Lavellan,” Cullen repeats, the Elvhen stilted on his Fereldan tongue. It takes great strength for Asha to force her ears not to twitch back, away from the sound.

She nods, a bit stiffly. “Commander,” she murmurs, reminding herself that as the only representative her clan would have in this Inquisition--and undoubtedly being under as much scrutiny as any one member of their leadership--she had best conduct herself appropriately. Respectfully. Even to him.

She watches his throat bob in a hard swallow--wonders for half a moment if her presence makes him as uncomfortable as his makes her, and if so, good--and then he says, sincerely, “I’m pleased you survived.”

At that, Asha’s ears do flatten back against her skull as a pang of guilt has her shoulders going rigid. He sounds far kinder now than he had back at the rift. And then she remembers the destroyed temple’s rift, and the way he had cut down a demon that would certainly have cut her down instead had he not been there. _‘Do not be unworthy of your clan’s faith in you,’_ she sharply reminds herself, nearly biting her tongue. _‘Or even of these people, and what little you have of theirs.’_

“Thank you, Commander,” she replies after a beat. It is still more difficult than she anticipated to add, “I might not have, were it not for your shield and sword.”

His lips quirk up, just barely, at one end--the one without a scar bisecting them. “You seem more than capable in battle.” Another moment passes, longer, and then he says, “What remains of our troops might have suffered far worse injuries, were it not for you. I hope you will forgive my rudeness; blaming you for what casualties there were was…” He clears his throat, struggling. “I apologize.”

That… That is unexpected, and Asha ducks her head so that he cannot see just how terribly off-guard he has caught her with those words. “You aren’t the first person who blamed me,” she begins, the words heavy in her mouth as she thinks of everyone who had. “Nor were you the cruellest. And probably not the last, either.” Finally, she raises her head and meets his gaze; he glances away for only a moment, and she wonders what it is that he sees in her violet eyes that cause his own to strain and hesitate so before he glances back. “I appreciate the apology.”

Before he can say anything more, or before another awkward silence can fall between them, Asha nods once more before she turns and continues on her way. The crowd gathered outside of the chantry slowly begins to disperse, and she slips between them, wanting distance between her and the pair of honeyed eyes that she feels fixed on her back. The weight of them unnerves her.

 

XXX

 

He stands at her shoulder a mere day later, dawn having broken over the Frostbacks an hour earlier and Cassandra having declared that the Inquisition’s first council is to finally be called. They all stand at the mouth of the chantry, waiting on the steps for Cassandra to finally arrive so that they may begin.

Once again, Cullen finds himself struck by just how _small_ the elf woman is--she who holds the power to seal rifts, and perhaps even the Breach, in the palm of her hand. The image of her standing at the rift had been burned into his mind for hours afterwards. She had stood before a pride demon easily more than three times her size, with her palms to the sky as her magic had poured over all of them like water. Even as the demon had carved the ground before her into pieces with its power, she had not flinched, and her barrier had not been penetrated. That moment had awed and unsettled him in equal measure.

Guilt gnaws at his gut for the latter, and for every time that he instinctively wants to rip his gaze away whenever she looks at him. Her irises are the color of a dusky sky. His hands shake every time the sight of them shocks him, reminds him of things he knows he would never--could never--forget.

Yet he wrenches his mind away from those thoughts, now. They always find him when it is late and his headaches have long since become a steady beating at the base of his skull. He would not like to linger on them in the early-morning light of day. Instead, his thoughts turn back to her.

Again.

Cullen thinks he might be rude, as keenly aware of her as he is. The only time he has ever found himself around elves before had been Kirkwall, or Kinloch. And even then, there were not very many. And of course, none were a thing like her.

Lavellan, with her half-shaved chestnut hair and face marked with both dark, ink branches and faded, deep scars--one slicing along the length of a slender ear and down the curve of her jaw, the other bisecting a brow--is as much of a mystery to him as he suspects all of them are to her. Her frame is small, but--the image of her dancing away from demons before she sweeps them away with her magic flashes in his mind once more--she is powerful. The top of her head hardly even reaches his shoulder, and his gaze once again slants down to study her. She stands with all the poise of a noblewoman, though her armor--expertly crafted by Harritt out of dark leather and furs--would leave her looking more out of place in Val Royeaux than in fields or forests.

Her ear twitches in his direction, and Cullen’s eyes swiftly dart away; he wills himself not to blush with the shame of being caught staring, telling himself that she hadn’t even looked at him. And yet, he feels his cheeks color all the same. He is the commander of the Inquisition’s troops; regardless of his curiosity, he would not have his behavior towards her contributing to the font of gossip springing eternal in every corner of Haven.

Cullen grits his teeth as he thinks of the scout--the human scout--he’d caught earlier in the week as they’d griped about being made to follow the orders of one of Leliana’s elven spies. Josephine had already cautioned them all to put a swift end to any instances of prejudiced language, but Cullen’s fury as he’d torn into the other man had perhaps been twofold. Once because that had been unbecoming of a member of the Inquisition, and the other--

Well. The shame in his gut curls ever-tighter when he thinks of Lavellan’s piercing gaze, the way her eyes had lingered on his gauntlets, and he nearly winces.

Once Cassandra has arrived, and once the Inquisition’s banner flies high upon the chantry’s stone facade, Cullen adjourns with the rest of the advisors to the war room for their first council.

Lavellan lingers outside with Cassandra, but Leliana catches his attention when she begins, softly, “We must discuss how we can get aid from the rebel mages in sealing the Breach. Lady Lavellan’s mark needs far more power than she has to accomplish it.” She pointedly does not bother to look at him, though Cullen hears Josephine lightly clear her throat.

Cullen says dryly, “Feeding more power into that thing is a risk we don’t need.”

Leliana appears coldly amused by his disagreement, rather than affronted. Somehow, that makes him more uneasy. “Are there too few Templars in Haven for your liking, Commander?” she asks.

The barb pierces deeply, and he can practically hear Josephine’s silent plea for them to not start this again. Treading carefully, he says, “We should discuss every option. Instead of meddling in powers that we don’t understand, we should ask the Templars to aid in suppressing the Breach.” He clears his throat softly, his gaze darting back to the closed doors that Cassandra and Lavellan should walk through at any moment. “Then, Lady Lavellan’s power will be enough. It might be safer, that way.”

A single, thin brow arches high on Leliana’s forehead. “Safer,” she repeats, and the word drips with acid. He bristles at her implication, that it would be safer for him and him alone, but Josephine speaks before he can respond.

“We must discuss the Chantry before either of these options can be viable, my friends,” she chirps, tapping her fingers on the edge of the table. Ever the diplomat, she smiles calmly and attempts to diffuse the tension that has thickened the air. “We will get nowhere if they continue to denounce us, and Lady Lavellan in particular.” She gives each of them a pointed look. “And I think she will have enough on her shoulders without getting caught in the middle of… bickering advisors, yes?”

Leliana lets out a soft huff of laughter, shaking her head. “How you scold us, Josie. And the day has hardly begun.”

Her eyes twinkle as she glances at Cullen, and the silent truce--even if it is surely temporary--is certainly a welcome relief. Grateful for the turn in their conversation, Cullen says wryly, “If I wanted to bicker with Leliana, I would wear better armor first. My helmet, at the very least.”

Leliana’s look is downright predatory. “Wise. But I think it best to avoid aiming for your head in any case. You might never forgive me if I ruined your immaculate hair--all that effort in front of the mirror, wasted. It would be a low blow indeed.”

Cullen merely rolls his eyes skyward, ignoring Josephine’s giggles and refusing to take the bait.

 

XXX

 

“I am _not_ a herald of anything,” Asha had snapped, her eyes blazing in the dimness of the war room. “Particularly not Andraste.”

Cassandra’s disapproval was a thing she had expected. Leliana’s quiet refusal to do anything but play the title to the Inquisition’s advantage, and Josephine’s pity--though she had anticipated them about as much as she had the title, Asha was not fool enough to think it made no sense. They were all bitter herbs she was being forced to swallow, and again, the lack of agency made her blood run hot even as she strived to keep a level head.

Cullen, though. The way he had looked at her across the table, as though he could sympathize with the burden of a title he had no love for.

 _‘But what does he know?’_ Asha thinks, her expression sour as she marches past the soldiers’ encampment where he stands at the forefront, overseeing training. The pack on her shoulder is heavy, but not nearly half as much as the weight of his gaze on her back.

Somehow, she can always sense it. And that makes her almost grateful to be meeting Cassandra, Varric, and Solas by the stables so that they can finally set out for the Hinterlands. But of course, nothing has been easy so far, and so she sits resigned atop her mount when the party is stopped from a hasty departure by the sound of the commander calling to them.

“Lady Cassandra,” Cullen says, striding down the path towards them. “There was no word of Master Dennet in the report that came back, but we cannot afford to be without decent mounts. If you would, see if you can’t reach him while you are in the area.”

“We will do all that we can, Commander,” Cassandra assures him.

Cullen nods once, and then his gaze slides to Asha’s. “Maker watch over you,” he addresses the party, but still, he looks at her.

The stare Asha gives him is withering, but she cannot help herself. Rogue templars crowd the hills of the Hinterlands with their lust for blood as much as rebel mages do, slaughtering innocents in the name of the Maker, and she is to go to them. To face them, and cut them down before they put their swords through her first. The knowledge makes the commander’s attention--him, with his Templar recruits, his gauntlets gleaming with the Sword of Mercy that has been anything but merciful lately, his desire to bring what is left of their order here to Haven--undesirable at the very least. At the very kindest.

It grates on her, makes her bare her teeth in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Dareth shiral, Commander,” she says frostily, deliberately. It is a reminder--one that draws a chuckle from Varric and even an amused smile from Solas--that she does not need, does not want, his Maker’s blessing.

 _“Keep your god to yourself,”_ Asha wishes she could say, but that would be far too unkind, even as much as she dislikes Cullen’s presence right now. And really, the way his face falls when he realizes that he’s offended her is enough to leave her satisfied as she turns from him and urges her horse on down the road, away from Haven and away from him.

 

XXX

 

Remorse catches up with her later, on the heels of Varric as he sits beside her by the campfire one night. They are days out from the Hinterlands, and Asha is too restless to sleep just yet. She welcomes the company, returns the small smile he gives her in greeting--and quickly presses her lips into a flat line of displeasure when he says, “You might want to cut the commander some slack.”

Asha blinks; his voice is not reproachful, and yet she feels as though she should brace herself for a scolding. Ridiculous, really, because Varric is the last person she would expect that from. “I didn’t realize you were friends,” she says slowly.

Varric looks at her as though she’s just said something incredibly, hilariously foolish. He shakes his head and says, “That’s a generous way to describe it. But reluctant acquaintances is probably closer to the mark.”

Asha smiles, quirking a brow. “Reluctant acquaintances like you and Cassandra?”

“Now you’re getting it.” He shrugs a shoulder and leans in towards the warmth of the fire. “You’ve got enough people giving you advice, I’m sure--three advisors, Seeker, Chuckles. You probably don’t want to add my name to the list, but all I can say is… Maybe talk to him a little.” He gives her a sidelong glance. “Even if you’re just deciding that yes, you definitely want to hate him.”

“I don’t hate him,” Asha counters, blinking in surprise to find that she really does mean it, and the thought of people assuming that she _hates_ him is quite unwelcome.

“Well, Curly isn’t exactly the most pleasant guy to be around sometimes,” Varric says, sounding amused.

“I… don’t disagree with that,” Asha says carefully, her lips twitching at the corners when Varric laughs. She shakes her head and adds, “But I don’t hate him. It’s just… difficult, I suppose. Being who I am and him being… who he is.”

Varric’s eyes glimmer in the light of the fire. “Who is he?”

 _‘A Templar,’_ she thinks. And then she frowns, because she knows that isn’t right. _‘A man who sympathizes with Templars.’_ She says as much, and Varric’s steady gaze does not waver, does not shift. He is unreadable.

“And that’s what makes it hard?” he asks. His manner of speaking throws her off; he is trying to coax something out of her, but Asha gets the sense that it is about more than her opinion on the commander--his reluctant acquaintance.

“It’s… more than that,” Asha says at last, after a long silence has stretched between them. Mage and Templar-- both titles that barely scratch the surface of what really lies underneath.  _'It's more than that_ _,'_ she thinks, a well-preserved grief flaring to life in her gut for the briefest moment. She tamps it back down, swallows the feeling until it fades to a dull ache.

Varric smiles knowingly. “It always is,” he says.

 

XXX

 

_Commander Cullen,_

_I asked that Cassandra allow me to be the one to update you on our progress--and I apologize if this letter is delayed. It took longer than expected, but we managed to contact Horsemaster Dennet, and he has agreed to give the Inquisition his aid--on the condition that we build watchtowers in the area to keep the mounts safe when they are sent to Haven. Considering the state of the Hinterlands, I agreed to have this done. Watchtowers will benefit more than just us--the people here need to be kept safe as well. Too many are without even food and blankets, much less protection from attacks._

_Enclosed is a map I’ve marked with three ideal locations for the towers. In the time this letter takes to reach you, we will have already started gathering the materials. If you would, spare some men to help us build. There are minor nobles around Redcliffe who can likely send aid, but these people cannot wait for them. Your men are more dependable, I think._

_Before this letter grows to take too much of your time, I want to apologize. You’ve shown no ill will towards me--none that you haven’t already made your own apologies for--and yet I think I’ve treated you--_ (Here, a long and unintelligible scribble.)-- _unfairly. This is all very much to deal with. My hand, the Breach, and just the other day a rogue Templar did his best to separate my head from my body, right before a rogue mage tried to light me on fire._

_But I am sorry. I realize that I don’t know anything about you past what I can assume. Being the apostate that I am, I’m sure you already know what those assumptions were. But assumptions are not enough to pass judgment. The things happening in the world now affect all of us. My Keeper--that’s the leader of my clan, who I trained under--reminded me of that, just before I left for the Conclave. I will do better to remember that from now on, and to not be so unkind._

~~_Unless you give me a reason, of course._~~ _Perhaps I will leave any humor for when I know you a little better._

_\-- Asha’revas Lavellan_

 

Cullen reads the letter no less than three times. If his gaze lingers overlong on the latter portion, he tells himself it’s because Lavellan’s penmanship is surprisingly sloping and elegant, not because the words make him feel--something. And despite the reports waiting on his attention, he drafts his response to her before anything else.

 

_Lady Lavellan,_

~~_I am pleased th_~~ _I ~~t is good to h~~_ (Maker’s breath; he gets a fresh piece of parchment, feeling more than a little ridiculous.)

 

_Lady Lavellan,_

_I am pleased to hear of your success in reaching Horsemaster Dennet; of course, I will send soldiers right away to aid your efforts in constructing the watchtowers._

_Your apology is--_ (A splotch of ink on the page, as though he’d held the quill over it too long while thinking of what to write.) _\--most appreciated, but it is quite alright. I am used to mages disliking me on principle; after all that has happened recently, it is understandable. For what it’s worth, I don’t believe you were as unkind as you seem to think. Cold, perhaps--but I’ve been guilty of the same, and considering all that we have put you through in such a short time, I cannot fault you for it. You are handling this far better than anyone else might, I think._

 _All the same, I will endeavor to remain on your good side._ ~~_Maker wa_~~ _Dareth shiral, was it?_

_\-- Commander Cullen Rutherford_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He definitely asked Josephine how to bid someone goodbye in Elvhen, mispronounced it when he was trying to explain what he wanted to write, and Minaeve had to correct him and spell it out for him three times before he got it. Hopeless.
> 
> Next up: shenanigans around Haven, Cullen is a disaster probably, catching feelings definitely. Probably.


	4. Templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha snorts, a small smile playing about the corners of her lips. In front of her, the pot hisses above the fire as a chill wind sweeps through. “That’s alright. I asked for your opinion because I wanted to hear it.” She cuts her eyes at him, smirking. “At least this time, it was a good one.”
> 
> Cullen's smile is rueful. “I hope you’ll forgive me for that as well,” he says, thinking of the way she’d looked at him that day in the war room. He is more than a little grateful that she is not looking at him that way now. “Thinking past myself, that is… not something I have been most skilled at in recent years.”
> 
> Asha quirks a brow. “Really?" she murmurs, finding that hard to believe. "You’re not delicate with your ways, certainly. But I think you at least deserve more credit than that. For your honest effort, perhaps.”
> 
> There is something in his eyes that she can’t decipher before his gaze shutters, and he looks away. Bringing a hand to the back of his neck, he says, “You have not known me for very long, Lady Lavellan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is keeping up, don't get used to these rapid-fire updates; it's like I'm on speed and I have no idea what's wrong with me. Anyways!!! Glad you're reading!!

_"Love will always be a lesson,  
best get out of its_ _way."_  
 **\-- 'Prisoner' by The Weeknd**

* * *

 

_Commander Cullen,_

_May this letter find you well. Horsemaster Dennet is already on the road to Haven with, as he says, “The finest mounts on either side of the Frostbacks.” I have learned the hard way not to misspeak and say_ this _side of the Frostbacks; unless you’d like a long lecture on why Orlesian chevaliers wouldn’t know what to do with a half-decent mount even if one kicked them in the head, mind your tongue when he arrives. That aside, I thought you might also like to know about the many iron deposits in the Hinterlands’ hillsides. I’ve sketched you a map of the most bountiful places--and I’ve included a few drakestone deposits for good measure. I imagine your troops would be grateful for new arms and armor._

_If you choose to send caravans out to mine them, we might pass them on our way back. The King’s Road and the Crossroads are far more stable now, and Cassandra insists that we return to Haven before we deal with the bandit camp close to Redcliffe. A problem for another time, she says--but there are so many problems to keep track of, it seems. I am at least grateful that out here, I am not buried in mountains of paperwork as I hear you are. The perks of hard labor._

_Then again, I suppose a cut from paper would be far more desirable than that from a sword._

_\-- Asha’revas Lavellan_

 

_Lady Lavellan,_

_Yes, Cassandra mentioned your run-in with rogue Templars and their swords at their encampment. While I won’t repeat her frustrations with your recklessness, as she called it, I am glad that your wound was not fatal. If we had healing poultices to spare, I would send some with this letter--I imagine nothing crafted in the field is quite as potent as the apothecary’s work here. But we run low on elfroot, and if I ask Adan one more time whether he’s managed to acquire more, he may just send me out to get them myself. Somehow, I think he would not be so kind as you are to provide a map._

_Speaking of, you might’ve been a cartographer in another life, Lady Lavellan. Such detail._

_\-- Commander Cullen Rutherford_

 

_Commander Cullen,_

_We Dalish try to be meticulous with our records, maps included. And I needed something to occupy myself with while Cassandra insisted on refusing to let me leave camp, not even to forage. Her concern was_ ~~_overbearing_~~ _surprising in its intensity, but obviously, I have not gone quietly to the Beyond just yet._

_Instead, I go to Haven; we are only a few days out, true, but there is something that I must mention which cannot wait until our return. As much as detail may please you, I doubt this will; enclosed is another map of marked locations to have your men avoid when they come for materials. You will like this far less; there is red lyrium in the Hinterlands. We’ve found two nodes so far, but Varric thinks there may be more. They are deep within caves--I think it is sheer luck that we discovered them. But please, have your troops avoid these areas entirely._

_I may not know much of it, but I realize it is incredibly dangerous. Varric will not say more._

_\-- Asha’revas Lavellan_

 

XXX

 

Snow falls from the sky upon Asha’s return to Haven; leaving her mount with Dennet at the stables, she takes a moment to thank Harritt once again for the skillfully crafted armor he had provided her with; the wind still painfully lashes at her, but his handiwork helps. She blinks hard, bewildered, when he motions her over and presents her with a thick mantle of fennec fur.

“For the cold, Lady Herald,” he mutters, sounding a touch bashful at the gaping look she is giving him. When she does not move, he presses it into her hands anyway. “It’s gotten bitter here; trust me, you’ll be needin’ it.”

Asha smiles then, ignoring the unwanted title in favor of digging the tips of her fingers into the plush softness of this gift. True, she is used to milder climates--and used to summoning gentle heat within herself to keep warm in lower temperatures. But this… well, she hardly knows what she might’ve done to deserve something so kind. Her eyes glimmer when she glances at Harritt, who looks quite pleased with himself. “I feel like I should repay you for this,” she remarks.

Harritt snorts, his mustache quivering comically with the sound. “No need; this is me repayin’ you, Lady Herald. The commander tells us we’ll be gettin’ more materials, says you’ve made maps of where to mine for plenty. Figure if the troops are gettin’ new arms and armor, you should get a bit of the same.” He nods to her and adds, just before he returns to work, “Let me know if you’re needing an upgrade.”

“Ma serannas, Harritt,” Asha murmurs, wrapping the mantle around her shoulders and sighing at the pleasant, warm weight of it. She finds herself uplifted as she climbs the steps towards the center of Haven--though she is not naive enough to think that everyone is pleased with her presence, even after seeing success in Hinterlands and garnering influence for the Inquisition, it is lovely to feel as though she might not need to walk as warily as she had been.

But her good mood lasts for all of a few minutes; when she draws close to the chantry, headed there to give an official report to the advisors with Cassandra, she hears it. The angry clamor of a crowd; her ears flick towards the sound, dissenting voices carrying to her on the wind. A frisson of unease skitters down her spine, and she quickens her steps until she is nearly running up the path, rounding the corner of an encampment to see two figures circling each other in the center of an angry mob. Asha’s heart drops, the air freezing in her lungs.

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” snarls a man in full Templar regalia; Asha’s breath catches in her throat, and she is moving forward before she can think to caution herself.

A mage glowers and spits back, “Lies!” His fingers flex around the length of the staff he holds in his hands, and Asha pushes through the outskirts of the mob and hears him sneer, “ _Your_ kind let her die.”

“Shut your mouth, mage!” The Templar roars, the word dripping with all the venom of a slur. His hand flies to the sword at his hip, and though Asha finally breaks past the crush of bodies, a shout on her lips and magic rippling over her palms, somebody else has beaten her to the pair.

_“Enough!”_ Cullen snarls, his grip punishing as his hand comes down hard upon the Templar’s arm, wrenching the man’s grasp away from his sword. Asha releases an explosive, shaken breath; Cullen’s gaze darts to the sound, eyes going wide when he realizes that she is mere feet away.

“Knight-Captain!” the Templar huffs, belligerent.

“That is not my title,” he breathes, eyes flashing as he looks at her; Asha’s heart thumps heavily in her chest at the sound of him, his voice thick. He rounds on the Templar. “We are _not_ Templars any longer; we are _all_ part of the Inquisition!”

Asha reaches out, her delicate fingers wrapping themselves around the wrist of the mage who still has his staff extended; her eyes narrow when he swivels around to look at her, a silent command in her gaze to heed Cullen’s words. Reluctantly, he lowers his staff.

She looks back and meets Cullen’s glance; his mouth opens, but whatever he means to say is interrupted by a most unwelcome, unfortunately familiar drawl.

“And what does _that_ mean, exactly?” says Roderick, stepping into the center of the circle, hands tucked primly behind his back and voice dripping with disdain.

Cullen scoffs. “Back already, Chancellor? Haven’t you done enough?”

Asha’s lip curls in disgust as she watches Roderick hail the rest of the tense crowd and say, “I’m curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its _Herald_ \--” At this, he throws her a baleful glare, and Asha stiffens. “--will restore order as you’ve promised.”

Cullen’s hands deliberately come to rest on the pommel of his sword. “Of course you are,” he replies, and Asha presses her fingers to her mouth to stifle her amusement at how utterly unimpressed he sounds with Roderick’s display. Gesturing to the crowd, he barks, “Back to your duties, all of you!”

Asha remains by his side, waiting until they’ve gone before she glances sidelong at him and mutters, “Well, that was something.”

Cullen huffs an exasperated breath through his nose. “It isn’t enough that Mages and Templars are already at war--now they’ve begun blaming each other for the Divine’s death.”

“Which is why we require a _proper_ authority to guide them back to order,” Roderick snaps, frowning deeply at the pair of them.

“Who, you?” Cullen asks sardonically, folding his arms. “Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?”

“Oh,” Roderick scoffs, cutting his eyes at Asha. “The rebel Inquisition and its so-called Herald of Andraste? I think not.”

“I am _not,_ ” Asha bites out from between gritted teeth; her hands are balled into fists so tight that she can feel the sting of her nails pressing half-moon marks into her palms, “the Herald of Andraste. And in case you’ve forgotten, the Chantry seems to be doing far worse than the Inquisition at this point.”

“Practically on the verge of splitting into open warfare amongst yourselves,” Roderick says mockingly. “Such success.”

Cullen’s eyes have practically narrowed down to slits. “Because that would _never_ happen to the Chantry,” he counters bitterly.

“Centuries of tradition will guide us! _We_ are not the _upstart,_ eager to sow more discord among the people!”

“ _Commander,_ ” Asha snaps before Cullen can open his mouth again and continue the pissing contest that has grown increasingly more irritating; as thrilling as it was to listen to somebody vocalize every nasty thought she’s had about the chancellor and his pompous attitude, Asha decides this has gone on for long enough. Putting her back to Roderick, she turns to him, meeting his wide-eyed gaze with an exasperated one of her own. “Remind me why you’re allowing the chancellor to stay?” she asks, her voice so demure it is clearly insulting, as if she speaks of a pest and not a person.

Cullen sighs. “He’s toothless. There’s no point in making a martyr of him simply because he enjoys hearing the sound of his own voice.”

That--the utterly _finished_ tone he speaks in--earns him a rare grin, Asha’s eyes dancing with laughter. Cullen blinks hard at her, falling silent.

The mirth of the moment is, predictably, destroyed when Roderick sniffs and says, “Clearly, _your Templar_ knows where to draw the line.”

Cullen bristles, and Asha rounds on Roderick with lightning in her stormy eyes. “Perhaps you’ve had your fill of petty games, Chancellor,” she hisses, taking one soft step towards him. It is clearly a warning, not a suggestion. When Roderick falters, stepping back, she presses on. “But I think you’ve wasted enough of everyone’s time. If you are so desperate for _order_ , perhaps you should think twice before stirring up trouble.” In her anger, sparks leap between her fingertips, her hair beginning to stand on end. Perhaps she oversteps, but if it will get Roderick to leave her be, she is willing to intimidate him. “Run along, now,” she finishes, baring far more teeth than is necessary.

Roderick sputters. “I take no orders from an _elf mage_ ,” he spits, his cheeks going ruddy as he points a finger in her face that is more of a nuisance than it is a threat. Still, he turns on his heel and storms off after the fact, and Asha is left alone with the commander at her back.

She peers over her shoulder at him, one ear twitching rapidly with the closest thing she can feel to nerves. If Keeper Deshanna had heard any of that, she would’ve been running through casting exercises--proper form, just to punish--from dawn until dusk. She is well aware that giving in to her emotions, while enjoyable, is rarely the wisest choice.

Cullen, however, looks almost impressed, his mouth pulled up in a half-smile that makes Asha’s own mouth quirk up at the corners. “Fearsome,” is all he says.

Asha rolls her eyes. “Enough,” she murmurs, trying not to laugh. Now that Roderick is gone, the air feels a great deal less stifling. She walks back to Cullen, gently shaking her head. “I take it I can expect more of… _that_ in Val Royeaux?”

Cullen grimaces, sympathetic. “At best, perhaps.” A beat passes. “The Chantry is not happy with us. With you, in particular. Even despite word spreading of your deeds in the Hinterlands.”

Asha quirks a brow at him. “My deeds?”

“Corporal Vale,” he begins, thinking of the lengthy report he’d read over the other day, “was quite pleased with your efforts. The refugees caught in the midst of this war are no longer in danger of starving or freezing to death, and you’ve left the region far more stable than it’s been in recent memory. With rebel encampments cleared and watchtowers deterring bandits… many actually feel safe, now.” His gaze darts down to her shoulder, hidden beneath a plush fur mantle that, for some reason, makes him smile faintly. “How is that wound, by the way?”

Asha cocks her head to the side, almost impish when she replies, “Scarring wonderfully.” She stares at him for a while longer, and then asks, “How is your headache?”

The shock of the question actually stalls the dull beating in the base of his skull for half a moment. “My lady?” is all he manages.

Asha frowns, wondering if perhaps she wasn’t meant to notice. The commander looks stricken. The cheer melts from her voice when she says, quieter now, “You just look…” Here, she mimics the pinching of his brow. “Not that I’m surprised, if this is what you’ve been dealing with since Cassandra went with us.”

The smile is gone from his face, now, replaced by a tightness around his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “I am fine, Lady Lavellan,” he says.

Still, Asha looks up at him through thick lashes, her gaze as piercing as ever. He is not the slightest bit convincing--but she decides not to pry. Instead, she quips, “Try not to let anyone riot when we leave.”

“The walls will be standing when you return,” Cullen says. A beat passes. Asha watches snowflakes catch and melt in the dark fur about his shoulders. “I hope,” he adds flatly.

That earns him another grin. His eyes soften at the sight.

 

XXX

 

“My clan?” Asha asks, her hands curling slowly to fists on the great table that separates her from the advisors. She hopes that they do not notice the light tremble in them, nor the one in her voice when she asks, “What have they said?”

“Your Keeper,” Leliana says, flicking the missive in front of her, “sends her well-wishes to the Inquisition and wants to know that you are safe.” Her pale gaze lands on Asha. “She would like to hear from you directly. Understandably.”

Asha glances beside her just in time to catch Cassandra’s frown, and she straightens in understanding even as disappointment drops like a stone in her gut. “I can’t go back to the forests near Wycome,” she murmurs, voice thin. The words hurt more aloud. “Since we need to prepare for dealing with the Chantry in Val Royeaux.”

“We can easily arrange for someone to be sent in your stead,” Josephine says soothingly, even as she begins to rapidly scribble down viable options. “With care, of course. Perhaps one of our elven scribes can deliver a message for you, as well as word of our fair treatment of all.”

Asha blinks, thinking over the offer--but it doesn’t entirely rest easy with her, feeling so impersonal. The clan is her home, her family; after everything happening so quickly, so terribly, Asha wants more for them than a letter and platitudes. Her eyes flick back to Leliana, who still holds the Keeper’s letter. “What do you think?” she asks, deciding it fair to ask an opinion of each of them.

Leliana smiles. “It’s been years since I’ve had the honor of being among the Dalish,” she says, and Asha can’t help the relief that blooms in her chest; of course. Leliana had, at one time, been a close companion of Warden Mahariel--the Hero of Ferelden. “But I think they would respect deeds, not words. My elven agents can deliver something to your clan that they need, as a sign of good faith.”

Asha smiles--but she remembers that she should hear from everyone, in fairness. She turns to Cullen, her gaze questioning.

He rubs a hand on the back of his neck and offers, “If you so choose, my troops can deliver news of your safety. And they would make it clear that the Inquisition should be taken seriously.”

Leliana purses her lips. Josephine looks down at her notes. The smile is gone from Asha’s face so quickly that it might never have been there at all, and her displeasure is palpable, knotting the tension Cullen feels on the back of his neck ever further.

“I think my clan understands just how seriously the Inquisition should be taken,” she says. Her words come down with all the severity of a sledgehammer. “Unfamiliar troops in full arms and armor, venturing into the forest and heading straight for a Dalish clan,” she says, and Cullen dreads. Nobody but her looks at him. “A bit… unnecessary, Commander.”

_Foolish_ goes unspoken, not that he doesn’t hear it ringing in his ears. Cullen nods deferentially, not trusting himself to say anything that will not rankle her further.

Leliana is doing her best not to smile. “Which option is the best for you and yours, Asha?” she asks, and the familiarity in her tone feels almost like a deliberate slight to Cullen. He nearly chides himself for being ridiculous--but then Leliana glances at him, pale eyes twinkling and smug, and he frowns.

“I think you know,” Asha says, iciness melting into soft amusement. “Royal elfroot. I was lucky to find some in the Hinterlands. I was going to use it, but I can always get more another time.”

Leliana nods. “I will send Charter by to collect it later, then. Once you’ve had enough time to write a letter to send with it.”

Asha smiles, swallowing hard past a lump in her throat that had not been there a moment before. She wills her eyes not to water; there is work to do, and little time for sentiment. But it touches her all the same. “Ma serannas, Leliana,” she whispers. Her eyes shine with gratitude--and perhaps a little melancholy when she thinks of all the people she will not be able to see for a long time yet.

 

XXX

 

_Keeper Deshanna,_

_I am alive and--mostly--well. I can only imagine the things you might have heard about what happened at the Conclave. Me, alone in my survival. I don’t know how. Maybe I will never know. But I think if anything--anyone--can learn the truth, it might be these people here._

_I must remain with the Inquisition, at least long enough to seal the Breach. Not to try--to seal it. I think it is the only way that I can return to you all. You must have already heard what these humans are saying about me, that I am the Herald of their god’s prophet, that I can close the rifts. The former is not true; I know these people are desperate, searching for something that they can cling to, and faith gives them that. I understand that. I feel as though I myself have asked the Creators for many things, lately._

_I can and do close rifts. But the power that I find myself with is not my own. Every time I look at my bare hand, I am reminded of it--that something has happened, something has branded me, and I don’t know what it is or what its true purpose is for._

_I am sorry for this, Keeper. I hope that you and the clan know that. I also hope that you have begun training a Second as you trained me, once. I might not be able to return for a very long time. Though I am scared to say it, perhaps not ever, if our gods are not kind. If I am not enough. You cannot--should not--wait for me. I would see the clan kept safe before all else, even if I am not the one who can protect you._

_I would ask that you consider joining me here, perhaps, as the Inquisition seeks aid from any who are willing to give it. But I know that you can’t, and more than that, you shouldn’t. To ask it of you all would be selfish, I know. But it is alright. I am fine here. I find myself among some unexpected companions. With them, I am safe. And with them, perhaps I can do much good--or at least, I can certainly try._

_You are all in my thoughts every day. You are all what guides me. Though there is much that separates us, I carry you with me._

_\-- Asha_

 

XXX

 

The door to the apothecary opens quickly, nearly slamming against the wall in the haste of a visitor. Asha glances up, brows climbing in surprise when she is greeted by a rather pale-faced Cullen, frozen in the doorway.

“My apologies,” he blurts, hands moving to fold behind his back.

Asha can’t help but be amused; it is early evening now, the last rays of sunlight dying on the horizon. Cullen, for once, is wearing nothing but an informal dark tunic and trousers, boots unadorned. It is the first time she’s seen him without his armor; though he still towers above her, his golden hair nearly touching the top of the doorframe, the rest of him looks quite different. Smaller. Even casually dressed, however, he still stands at attention.

“If you’re looking for Adan,” she says at last, turning back to her work on the potions bench before her, “I believe he went to see Minaeve about something.” She glances back up and notices that Cullen has not moved. “You can come inside, you know.”

“I--” he begins, the redness of his sudden flush standing out vibrantly in the sunset. His throat works for a moment, and Asha is glad that when her back is turned, she can hide her smile. “Of course,” he finally says, stepping inside and pushing the door almost--but not quite--shut. A sliver of light peeks through, cutting across the floor.

Asha wonders if he does that for her sake, or for his. Him, alone with a mage. Her, alone with a Templar.

_‘Former Templar,’_ she corrects herself. She glances again over her shoulder; he is still by the door, still at attention. She doesn’t even pretend to be anything but sarcastic when she asks, “Can I help you, Commander?” He blinks, brow pinching for a moment; the expression makes Asha falter, her smile fading. “Headache?”

Cullen gives her a tight smile, trying for nonchalance when he says, “Nothing to worry about. I only wanted to ask something of Adan.” He looks away from her then, off to the side where bottles and jars of crushed herbs line the shelves of the far wall. “Do you know when he might be back?”

“I don’t,” Asha replies smoothly, her eyes on the commander even as her hands continue her work, the soft susurrus as her pestle grinds elfroot into pulp filling the silence when it stretches between them. He glances at her hands, her fingertips stained for her effort. “If you need a poultice, or something for a compress, I might be able to help. A potion, though.” She throws a wry glance at Adan’s workstation. “I am not quite the alchemist Adan is, so I would wait for that. He’s glad for my help, but he won’t be if I cause an explosion. Nor would anyone else here, obviously. And people have only just stopped giving me dirty looks.”

Cullen’s smile reaches his eyes, then; she nearly draws a laugh out of him with that. “I, ah… A compress, perhaps,” he says falteringly. As though admitting it is difficult. He gestures to the room, quick before he hides his hands behind his back once more, saying, “Though I think the smell of so many herbs is working, a bit.”

Asha can still see the pucker in the center of his forehead where his brows furrow. A skillful liar, he is not. “You would need more than elfroot in the air if you wanted the headache to leave,” she says, teasing. She adds the pulp in her mortar to the large, wooden bowl set on the worktable before her, running gentle fingers to stir the mix. “If you have nothing important to see to right now, I can have something made for you in minutes.”

Cullen hesitates for the briefest moment. And then, slowly, “I… I would appreciate that, Lady Lavellan.”

She nods once, wiping her hands on the cloth she has tied around her waist. “Would you like to help?” she asks, reaching for a tiny pot and filling it with a waterskin that she takes from her hip. “That way you’ll know how to make it.”

Cullen does not meet her eyes, instead watching her hands as she takes a jar of oil from a shelf and pours a few drops into the pot. “I think I might learn best observing you, my lady,” he says softly. His hands are still tucked behind his back.

Asha says nothing in response, instead scooping a portion of the elfroot pulp into the pot and tucking it beneath her arm. She gestures for Cullen to follow her out, taking him to the firepit where she heats the mixture, manipulating the water within to gently swirl by way of magic. “Only a few minutes,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at him. He nods, and she observes him in silence.

They have not spoken in days--not since his disastrous, rejected, suggestion on how best to approach her clan. Asha doesn’t fault him for it--not really. He is a human, and a particularly blunt one on top of that. With what she knows of him--that he was a Templar, recruited to the Inquisition after what had happened in Kirkwall--she cannot be surprised. Everybody in the Free Marches, and perhaps now the world, knew of Kirkwall. Templars ruling with an iron fist, every terrible action sanctioned by a madwoman. Mages who had no other option, in the end, to become monsters to fight monsters.

Asha’s gut churns, thinking of the stories she has heard. But when she watches Cullen, the feeling abates. Slightly. Perhaps she simply does not know enough of him; perhaps every instance of formality is a facade, and whatever causes his pinched brow and shadows under his eyes is something dark within him.

Something from his days as a Templar, maybe. Likely.

But Asha has learned by her Keeper’s teachings that sometimes, what seems like the obvious answer is not always the correct one. She would not accuse Cullen of anything, not when she doesn’t know him. But as she waits for the infusion in her pot to bubble, she speaks. “Can I ask you something, Commander?”

He blinks as if waking from a daze. “Of course,” he says automatically.

“All of this,” she begins, glancing around as dusk settles over Haven. In the distance, she sees campfires lit in front of many encampments. The chatter of patrons in the tavern--troops and pilgrims alike--as well as the clang of the smiths who still work into the night are music like none other she has heard before. There is so much here, in Haven. And there is so much still to come. “You believe it’s worth it? That the Inquisition will work? Truly?”

If he is surprised by her question, he does not show it. “I do,” he says, without hesitation. “The Chantry lost control of the mages and Templars long ago. Now they sit in Val Royeaux, arguing over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition can act where the Chantry cannot, and our followers would be a part of that. There’s _so_ much we can--” He freezes, then, his words choked off in his throat. He swallows hard, and even in the dusk, Asha can see the flush rising high on his cheeks. “Forgive me. I doubt you are interested in a lecture, considering I interrupted your work.”

Asha snorts, a small smile playing about the corners of her lips. In front of her, the pot hisses above the fire as a chill wind sweeps through. “That’s alright. I asked for your opinion because I wanted to hear it.” She cuts her eyes at him, smirking. “At least this time, it was a good one.”

Cullen's smile is rueful. “I hope you’ll forgive me for that as well,” he says, thinking of the way she’d looked at him that day in the war room. He is more than a little grateful that she is not looking at him that way now. “Thinking past myself, that is… not something I have been most skilled at in recent years.”

Asha quirks a brow. “Really?" she murmurs, finding that hard to believe. "You’re not  _delicate_  with your ways, certainly. But I think you at least deserve more credit than that. For your honest effort, perhaps.”

There is something in his eyes that she can’t decipher before his gaze shutters, and he looks away. Bringing a hand to the back of his neck, he says, “You have not known me for very long, Lady Lavellan.”

A pregnant pause stretches between them. The pot boils at last, and Lavellan snuffs out the fire with a wave of her hand. “True,” she says eventually, tugging her cloth from around her waist and laying it against the sides of the pot with a freezing touch. She says nothing more as she steps past him, back into the apothecary’s cabin. She sets the pot on the worktable and decants the elfroot infusion into a small jar, chilling its exterior before she finally turns and holds it out to Cullen. “All done.”

He takes it from her with grateful hands, his rough fingers brushing lightly against hers for half a breath. They are shaking. Asha does not comment on it, but she smiles when Cullen murmurs, “My thanks, Lady Lavellan.”

“Asha,” she corrects him, softly. “Asha is fine, Commander.”

He swallows hard. “Cullen,” he says after a long moment. “If we are being familiar.”

Asha nods, eyes glowing in the cabin’s darkness. She cocks her head to the side, observing him for a moment longer before she gestures to the jar and says, “Keep it somewhere warm, if you can. The cloth will soak better. When you apply it, five minutes should be enough, I think. Or ten if it’s particularly bad.”

Cullen traces a finger over the rim of the jar. “My thanks,” he says again, hoarsely. When he looks at her, the unscarred corner of his mouth slants up with a faint smile. “Cartographer, and now an herbalist.”

Asha’s laugh is fleeting. “Sheer luck that you know more of what my skills are, Cullen, rather than what they aren’t. If you needed more pomade, for example, I couldn’t have helped you.”

He blushes then, fiercely. Asha’s laughter lasts far longer that time. “I must know,” he begins, almost stuttering--partly from embarrassment, and partly because the sound of her laughter is so lovely in its unfamiliar richness, “just who is _gossiping_ about me for you to say that, my lady.” 

“I know Varric calls you Curly for a reason,” Asha says, swallowing her mirth. Still, it flutters in her chest like the wings of a sparrow, strangely light. “It was quite an easy guess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch. These. Feelings.
> 
> Up next: the fallout from Val Royeaux, more Haven shenanigans, more feelings.


	5. Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clink of the jar is loud in the silence as Asha caps it and slowly turns to look at Cullen. He is solemn and silent now, watching her as well as she leans her hip against the edge of the worktable. Her fingers tap a short rhythm against the rim of the jar, cradling gently it in her small hands. “Are Templars expected to give up physical temptations as well?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meat and potatoes, y'all. Also, I know, I listen to a LOT of The Weeknd. He's my muse, lmao.

_"I only want you,_  
_and nobody's going to know if it's true."_   
******\-- 'Valerie' by The Weeknd**

* * *

 

Val Royeaux is a mild disaster that leaves Asha feeling as though all of her nerves have been burned away to nothing; her hands are restless, too much frenetic energy within her to keep a cool head as she listens to the advisors trade verbal blows and grows more agitated with each breath she takes.

“ _Enough_ ,” she spits, her voice echoing off the walls of the chantry, empty save for their presence. Cassandra looks at her with raised brows, and she is not the only one stunned into silence by Asha’s harsh command. She looks at them all, eyes flashing with heat. “Bickering solves nothing. The Templars are gone, and they want nothing to do with us. And I feel much the same about them,” she adds, thinking of the blood on Val Royeaux’s flagstones when one of their men had struck down a Revered Mother.

She has no love for the Chantry, but she also holds none for those who would go too far when there is no need for it.

“Be that as it may,” Josephine begins, softly, so as not to irritate, “we now have the opening that we need to approach the Templars, as well as the mages.”

“Do we?” Cassandra asks, and Asha sees the lines of strain at the corners of her eyes. Witnessing the Templars’ behavior in Orlais’ capital has left her shaken. “Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man that I remember.”

“We extended our hand in support,” Asha says pointedly, and it is the truth. She had called on the Templars to join the Inquisition as Cullen had, thinking that perhaps seeing one of their own rank so committed to righteousness might sway them. How wrong she had been. “They have all but spit in our faces.”

“I’m certain not everyone in the Order supports the Lord Seeker’s actions,” Cullen says then, almost entreatingly.

“Every Templar in Val Royeaux knew we were coming,” Asha snaps, rounding on him. Even drawn up to her full height as she is, he is still much larger than her, but she leans forward unflinchingly and says, “And every one of them followed like dogs at their master’s heels when the Lord Seeker called for them to leave.”

His throat works for a moment, the motion drawing Asha’s gaze. To say that Cullen is displeased with her analogy would be an understatement, but he takes care to compose himself before he points out, “The mage rebellion could be ten times worse.”

“Forgive me if I disagree,” Asha says flatly. “We have tried for diplomacy with the Templars, and we’ve failed. We should not go crawling back to them when Grand Enchanter Fiona has offered an invitation for us to speak, rather than us being forced to beg for their attention. The time for speculating on what to do is over; we know what we need. To seal the Breach. And we won’t be doing that if we keep having this same conversation over and over again.”

“I agree,” Cassandra says, touching an arm to Asha’s elbow in a subtle attempt to draw her back from going for the commander’s throat. Cullen looks unhappy, but he says nothing, and so it is her who says, “The mages have the power that we need. But I think they are more desperate than you may realize, Asha.”

Asha is unimpressed, but she has only just begun to soften her relationship with the lady Seeker, and she would rather not go back to the initial cold animosity if she can help it. “I understand that you’re worried about the danger, Cassandra,” she says. And then she shakes her head and points to the heavy wooden door on the far side of the wall--the one that leads to cold steps that descend into chilly cells. “But I’ve been in danger since I fell out of the Fade and woke up in that dungeon there. I would ask that you remember that.”

Cassandra’s mouth twists with both remorse and displeasure. “If some among the rebel mages are responsible for what happened--”

“The same could be said about the Templars,” Josephine points out.

Asha’s head throbs as a pained silence blankets all of them; she is so tired of arguing in circles. She keeps her back straight and her head held high, as she well should, but the exhaustion weighs deep in her bones. For a moment, she finds herself meeting Cullen’s gaze--and she finds the same tired shadows there. As it always does when her temper gets the better of her, guilt crawls into her throat and squeezes tight.

_‘I should not have called them dogs,’_ she thinks, still watching him.

He glances towards Josephine. “True enough,” he says, and they all blink in surprise at the concession from him, of all people. Asha’s expression is pained when he meets her eyes again. “I am not certain we even have enough influence to approach the Order safely, in any case.”

Asha hesitates for a moment, thinking on everything that has happened. All of them are looking to her, and she presses her lips thin when she realizes that this decision is not one that can be made in haste--or in high emotions. “I think we might say the same of approaching the rebel mages,” she says.

“Then the Inquisition needs agents in more places,” Cassandra says, her voice cutting through the solemn air about them. She turns to Asha and adds, “That is something I know you can help with. Already, you have brought three back with you from Val Royeaux.”

The praise in her voice is so unexpected that Asha feels heat rise to her cheeks. “That was not--” she begins, but Cassandra is uninterested in her attempt at modesty.

“It was,” she says simply. “People are looking to you more than you know.”

Asha swallows hard, feeling the phantom prickle of the mark on her left palm. She clenches her hand into a tight fist, silently resolving to bear the extra weight that has just been placed upon her shoulders with grace, not fear.

Still, when they all adjourn to their quarters, Asha is left standing alone in the main hall of the chantry--and it is then that she expels a shaky breath, bringing a hand to her head and wondering if people looking to her is really the best thing. Wondering if she is making the right choices.

Who is she to decide for so many? There is no one around that might give her an answer.

 

XXX

 

_Da’len,_

_Andaran atish’an. It does our hearts well to hear that you are safe. Our clan was visited by members of the Inquisition who spoke persuasively of the good work you are doing, as well as the fairness with which our kind have been treated by the Inquisition itself. While I worry for you while you are with them, their deeds thus far give me no reason to doubt their word._

_You know that our clan has little by way of gold, but I gave the messengers some of our healing herbs, as Sylaise blessed us in abundance in our recent foraging. It is good to know that her blessing is upon you as well; the royal elfroot will do much good for us when we are in need of it. Ma serannas, Asha. Even now, when you have taken up such a great burden, you still think of us._

_You need apologize for nothing, da’len. Though you do well in knowing when to place the welfare of others above your own--please. Look after yourself. We would be a distraction if we came to the Inquisition itself, our hunters arguing with the humans as they so easily do without your level head to keep them in check. And we would not take you away from your duties. Nevertheless, if you need aid, send word, and we are with you._

_We will always be with you, Asha’revas. You are our First--our pride and joy, always. With this letter is a reminder._

_Dareth shiral._

_\-- Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

 

XXX

 

Asha doesn’t hold back the shaken breath that quivers from her lungs when she glances away from her Keeper’s letter and watches Leliana lay a dearly familiar object on the war table. The spymaster slides it in her direction, her eyes twinkling as she says, “Your Keeper asked my agents to take great care in returning this to you.”

Her staff. Her beloved staff, lovingly crafted of pale Ironbark from the forest where she’d sat for her blood writing. She reaches out a shaking hand, trailing her fingers down the length of it, feeling every groove in the carefully carved surface. Her touch lingers on the intricate branches that crawl up before transitioning into the ornately carved image of a dragon taking flight wrapped around the tip.  Reverently, she wraps her hand arounds it and lifts it from the table. Her breath hitches in her throat, her vision blurring as her blood sings with the power of her magic feeling at last like it’s been made whole.

“Thank you,” she whispers thickly. She is crying; Asha can feel the tears pouring down her cheeks, but no matter how silly she feels, she can’t seem to stop. She beams at the watery image of Leliana before her, laughter bubbling from her lips. “Thank you. I--I’m sorry, I am… overwhelmed. I thought… I thought I might not see this again for a long time.”

“It is very dear to you,” Leliana says, observing her without judgment. Everybody is watching her, in fact, silently and with softness in their eyes.

“It is,” Asha gasps, cradling it to her. “It was made for me and me alone.” She swipes quickly, shakily, at the tears that still trail down her face, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

“Please, Asha,” Josephine says then, clearly affected by Asha’s emotional display. Shaking her head and smiling at her over the top of her notes, she says, “No apologies. Joy suits you most wonderfully.”

Asha spends the rest of the council with her hands curled firmly around her staff, a radiant smile on her face.

 

XXX

 

Though Asha tells herself she will finally speak with Cullen and apologize for the day she’d compared the Templars to dogs, it is a trip to the Storm Coast and back yet before she finally gathers the courage to make her way to the encampment outside of Haven’s main gate with a wide basket held against her hip. Cassandra pauses in her training to raise a hand to her in greeting, and Asha returns the gesture with a smile but motions towards the encampment. In the empty field nearby, the troops run combat drills under Cullen’s watchful eye.

He sees her approaching, though, and turns his head to say something to his lieutenant before he steps away and waits for Asha to meet him on the path. “Lady Lavellan,” he says, nodding in greeting.

“Cullen,” she replies deliberately. Something in his gaze softens at the familiarity, and Asha feels lighter at the sight. She glances down the path that leads into the sparse forest past the mock-barracks, and then back to him. “I thought I might do some gathering. Would you walk with me?”

“Of course,” he replies easily, following her leisurely pace. She wonders if he might be grateful for the break; his brow is slightly pinched yet again.

“Adan ran out of elfroot,” Asha explains, veering off to a snowbank where a long bloom of the herb stands out proudly. She kneels, deftly plucking off the mature leaves and leaving behind the rest. She glances up at Cullen who watches her with interest, surprisingly. Dropping the leaves in the basket, she says, “Rather than let him chase you down and send you out to gather at last--since it is your men who use up most of the supply--I volunteered.”

Cullen chuckles softly, falling into step beside her once again as she continues on. “My thanks for sparing me that.”

Asha smirks at him. “I’m dragging you along, though.” Telling herself to get on with it, she adds, “But the reason I asked you to come along was so I might apologize to you, away from your men.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, her ears going flat against her skull. “I am sorry. For calling the Templars dogs. That was… _very_ unworthy of me.”

Cullen is silent when she kneels behind the next cluster of elfroot she comes upon, and Asha is so focused on her task, so wary of what he might say to her, that she nearly misses his quiet words. “It occurs to me that we spend a great deal of time apologizing to each other,” he says, sounding almost amused.

Asha’s sighs, the sound a breezy thing. “The growing pains of an Inquisition where its commander is a former Templar while its… Its…”

“Herald?” Cullen supplies with a raised brow; Asha narrows her eyes at him, and the way he now smirks at her knowing how she hates the title.

“I’d rather eat rashvine than call myself that,” she deadpans.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen says, a snort of laughter escaping him.

Asha nearly grins, shaking her head and saying, “Icon, perhaps. While its reluctant icon is a Dalish mage.” She pauses then, turning to face him. “Do you know Varric was placing bets on whether or not I would hit you, at some point?”

Cullen looks as though he finds the sound of that equal parts amusing and exasperating. “Of course he was,” he says, looking down at her. He smiles, remarking, “Perhaps he thought it might ease the growing pains if you did.”

Asha rolls her eyes at him, biting back her own smile. “Don’t tempt me, Messere,” she says, missing the way that his brows shoot up at the respectful address. It takes him a moment to realize that she is teasing him. She continues in her foraging, adding, “I watch Cassandra train, you know. I doubt you want me to treat you like she treats those poor dummies.”

Cullen hums in agreement, declining to remind her that he’s seen her in battle before, and she is every bit as fearsome as Cassandra. More in some ways, perhaps; he thinks admirably of the way she’d stared down that pride demon what seems so long ago, utterly unflappable. He’d served beside many a man before who would not have remained half as poised as she.

“Jokes and apologies aside,” Asha begins, her basket continuing to fill as they move through the trees. “I thought I might ask you some things. About the Templars.”

Cullen blinks at her. “Have you changed your mind about approaching the mages?” he asks carefully.

Asha’s expression is, blessedly, serene when she answers, “I have not.” She glances up at him, her gaze piercing in its intensity. Her hands still in their gathering for a moment, and she turns to look at him fully. “I was raised to always consider the impact of my actions on others. I was raised to question things, and seek knowledge--even if I might have little interest in the subject.” She smiles then, shrugging a shoulder; the breeze ruffles the fur mantle about her. “It’s what’s expected of me as a leader.”

Cullen’s gaze darts once to the staff she wears upon her back, its dragon carving rising above her shoulder. It really is a thing of fine craftsmanship. He knows very little of the Dalish, admittedly. But does know that their clans are mage-led. He is well aware of what she has left behind, joining them as she had.

Asha clears her throat lightly and continues, treading as carefully as she can, “I’m not naive. I know that you have seen the worst that mages are capable of.” Shadows pass through his gaze, and her heart squeezes painfully in her chest. “As I have seen the worst of Templars.”

“Have you?” he asks softly, and it’s not in doubt that the Order has done monstrous things. It’s that he doubts whether she understands, as he does, just how far they have gone.

Her smile is a paper-thin thing, leaving no warmth to her expression or her words. Her ear--the left one, with the deep scar that begins next to the lobe and carves down her jaw--flicks gently. “I am scarred in many places, Cullen,” she murmurs, watching him flinch. “As I’m sure you are.”

“My lady--”

“So if you don’t hold your scars against me, I certainly wouldn’t do the same to you,” she says, barreling over his words without hesitation. “So again, I would like to ask you some things about the Templars. It’s only right that I try to learn what I don’t know.”

For some reason, Cullen looks the oddest cross between stricken and envious. “If I may say, you continue to surprise me.”

Asha’s chuckle is low, throaty. “Would you rather I hold everything you’ve ever done wrong up to the light of day? Never stop?” Her eyes sparkle. “Beating you like a training dummy might be kinder.”

Cullen thinks of Varric’s _Tale of the Champion_ \--a book that has been passed around Haven more than once--and must bite back his reply that someone has already done that. Though he wouldn’t blame her if she did, too. His voice is tight when he responds, “Perhaps you might find that the more desirable option, if you knew…” He trails off, and Asha waits. Clearing his throat, he says at last, “I will be the first to admit that the Templars have done many things wrong. That I have, as well.”

“Naturally,” Asha says, sounding unbothered. Her feelings in this moment are most strange; it isn’t as though what he has done doesn’t matter. It does. More than that, though, it makes an unfortunate amount sense. “What Templar hasn’t easily assumed the worst of a mage? What mage hasn’t done the same in turn?”

Cullen’s shame is almost palpable. “Even so,” he says. His hands are shaking, and he goes to fold them behind his back.

He very nearly startles away from her when Asha steps forward and grabs his wrist; her hand is shockingly small, gentle as it tugs his arm out. She unceremoniously dumps the half-full basket of herbs into his grasp. “Taking you away from your duties as I am,” she says lightly. “I should at least give you some labor.”

He gapes at her for a moment, at a loss for words. She is trying to rip away the somber cloud that has blanketed them, sauntering forward to search for more elfroot. He follows her silently, a shadow at her back. Having something to hold on to, now--to hide the shaking--helps. He is glad she says nothing of it.

“Will you humor me?” Asha asks, after they have moved through much of the sparse forest and the basket is nearly full.

Cullen swallows past the tightness in his throat. “What would you like to know?”

She smiles. Their walk back to the encampment is much, much slower--for how long they’ve been gone, she is surprised that no messenger has come running with some report for the commander. More than that, though, she is grateful for the opportunity to gain some insight into the Order’s actions. Though it will not change her mind, she listens to Cullen as he speculates on why the Templars have left the Chantry--and everyone--to their own devices. “I disagree with the Order’s actions,” he says at the end, glancing down at her. “That I’m here is proof of that. But I sympathize with their frustrations.”

Asha hums thoughtfully, tracing patterns in the snow with the end of her staff as they walk along. “Why did you join the Templars?” she asks.

Cullen blinks. “I could think of no better calling than to protect those in need. I used to beg the templars at our local Chantry to teach me. At first they merely humored me, but I must have shown promise. Or at least a willingness to learn. The Knight-Captain spoke to my parents on my behalf. They agreed to send me for training.” He sounds as though his mind is somewhere far away. “I was thirteen when I left home.”

“So young,” Asha murmurs sympathetically.

Cullen shrugs. “I was far from the youngest. Some are promised to the Order in infancy. Still, I didn’t take on full responsibilities until I was eighteen. The Order sees you trained and educated first.”

Asha thinks of her clan, then--so far away from her. The Keeper’s letter is still tucked in the leather pouch at her hip. “Did you miss your family?” she asks.

Cullen nods, swallowing hard. “Very much,” he says. “But I was not alone in that.”

The trees begin to clear a bit, Asha still leading the way. She can see the little path up ahead that they’d left, leading down towards the mock-barracks in the distance. She tucks her staff carefully upon her back once again and says, “My Keeper warned me to avoid Templars when she sent me here.” At this, she throws him a mock-rueful glance at him over her shoulder. His mouth draws up in that familiar half-smile. “What _are_ their duties? Besides hunting mages?”

“Templars protect against the dangers of magic. Before the Order left the Chantry, that meant serving in a Circle,” he answers. “They were also tasked with fighting demons inevitably summoned by the weak or malicious.”

Back on the path now, Asha stops so suddenly that he nearly knocks into her; she whirls around to look at him. Even if she were to stand on her toes, they still wouldn’t be eye to eye, but her gaze is difficult to look away from regardless. “What do _you_ think of mages?” she asks. Though she knows she might not like the answer, she presses on. “Are we all a threat?”

It takes him a moment to answer. “I’ve seen the suffering magic can inflict,” he says carefully. His voice is even, but there is something in his eyes that aches to look at. “I’ve treated mages with distrust because of it--at times, without cause. And that was unworthy of me. I will try not to do so here.”

Asha gives him a look that is equal parts understanding--and disappointed. “A perfectly reasonable non-answer,” she says, not unkindly.

A beat of silence passes between them. “I do not believe all mages are a threat,” he says. “Merely that magic is capable of threatening things. We need safeguards in place to protect people--including mages--from possession, at the least.”

The insistent way that Cullen says that-- _protect people, including mages_ \--makes her wonder if there has been a time in his life where he wouldn’t have included them. The thought makes Asha wary, but whatever anger it inspires is fleeting, simmering in her blood for only a moment. He would not be the first person to think so poorly of mages. That he is not that person now is what matters.

She does not think he is that person now. Not when they finally make their way back to Haven and he politely offers to escort her to the apothecary.

“I haven’t taken enough of your time already?” Asha asks, though she lets him accompany her.

Cullen leaves her with the basket and a parting smile. “Perhaps you find it difficult to believe, but your company is not unwelcome.”

Asha raises a brow, a smile spreading slowly across her face. Somehow, that has her chest blooming with sweet warmth. Her tone is lilting, downright charming, when she teases, “Likewise… despite any growing pains?”

He chuckles softly, his face feeling quite heated despite the chill weather. “Despite any growing pains,” he agrees.

 

XXX

 

It is a few weeks before they see each other again, but Asha is pleasantly surprised when Cullen visits her again in the apothecary one night. Adan has already retired for the night, but has given her leave to work with her herbs under the soft glow of magelights. Though he is an abrasive man on his best days, Asha knows he is grateful for the extra pair of hands, especially those as skilled as her own. And the work reminds her of home. She is carefully twining together bunches of spindleweed to dry when she hears knuckles rap on the door before it opens.

“Cullen,” she says, nodding at him in greeting. Her pinned up hair bobs with the motion, one stubborn lock falling across her cheeks. His eyes are drawn to it, and she brushes it away with one hand, setting aside her work with the other. “Do you need something?”

He gives her an apologetic look, saying, “I know you have only just returned, but…” His throat works for a moment. “I thought I might ask you for another compress.”

Asha grins at him. “Well, you are in luck,” she says, reaching high for a sealed jar upon the shelves. She snatches the lid off and turns to present the contents to him, the cool scent of elfroot, sharp and strong, fills the small cabin. “Royal elfroot,” she explains, brushing her spindleweed bundles aside and setting herself to work. “I actually thought to set some aside for you.”

“For me?” Cullen asks, as though he has misheard her. Surely he has.

But he hasn’t. “Yes,” Asha says, already beginning to pulp the leaves. “Leliana mentioned that you have headaches frequently now. I thought a stronger infusion might help.”

Cullen is too flattered to mind the fact that Leliana has been both keenly observing him and gossiping about him to Asha. He is sure he will have words with her later.

Asha throws him an almost impish look over her shoulder, her pale eyes glowing in the dimness of the cabin. “I also thought I might use it as a bribe, you know. I have more questions for you.”

“Still?” he asks, good-natured in his mocking. “After all our correspondence.”

“I’m aware,” Asha says, rolling her eyes. She prepares the pot for the infusion and gestures for him to follow her out to the firepit. Solas passes by, nodding at the pair of them; she waves to the other elf in greeting but waits until he is gone before she continues, “I know all about your rigorous training, now--but still, I am curious.” She smiles. “Humor me?”

Cullen steps closer to the fire, then, letting it warm him. “What would you like to know?”

Asha hums thoughtfully as she stirs the pot. “Tell me. What was a typical day in a Circle like?”

Cullen lets out a sardonic bark of laughter. “Typical. The last time I served in a Circle was right before it fell apart. _Nothing_ was typical.”

Asha resists the urge to flick warm water in his direction for his flippancy; he would likely not appreciate that. She minds her tongue and says, genially, “Before that, then.”

He shrugs a broad shoulder and thinks for a moment. “Certain rituals require a full guard. A mage’s Harrowing, for instance. I’ve attended a few.” He sounds uncomfortable at that. “Most of the time, you merely maintain a presence--on patrol, or in the Circle. Ready to respond if needed.” He glances at her, briefly. “Mages pretend to ignore that presence, but they watch us just as closely.”

Asha raises a brow at him. “Did you never speak to one another?”

Cullen frowns. “Some do.” Asha notes that, again, he avoids speaking for himself. “But Templars are supposed to maintain a certain distance from their charges. If a mage is possessed or uses blood magic, you must act quickly, without hesitation. Your judgment cannot be clouded.” His voice is softer, almost regretful, when he finishes, “Of course, ignoring one another does nothing to foster understanding.”

“True,” Asha murmurs, listening to the hiss of the pot above the open flames. They are silent for a while after that, but then she leans back to gaze up at him. “Templars take vows, correct?” She deeply furrows her brows and says, in a mockingly low voice, “I swear to the Maker to watch _all_ the mages--that sort of thing?”

Cullen cannot help the smile that pulls at his lips, shaking his head as he chuckles. That draws a soft laugh from her, chiming and lovely. “Not quite,” he manages once he’s composed himself, following her into the apothecary’s cabin once the pot has finished boiling. While she decants the infusion, he explains, “There’s a vigil first. You’re meant to be at peace during that time, but your life is about to change. When it’s over, you give yourself to a life of service. That’s when you’re given a philter – your first draught of lyrium – and its power.” His voice goes soft then, so low it is barely a rumble in her sensitive ears. “As templars, we are not to seek wealth or acknowledgment. Our lives belong to the Maker and the path we have chosen.”

The clink of the jar is loud in the silence as Asha caps it and slowly turns to look at Cullen. He is solemn and silent now, watching her as well as she leans her hip against the edge of the worktable. Her fingers tap a short rhythm against the rim of the jar, cradling gently it in her small hands. “Are Templars expected to give up physical temptations as well?”

Cullen’s heart stutters in his chest. Her gaze does not waver. “Physical…” he starts, trailing off into silence. He can’t wrap his mind around the question for a long moment. Eventually, he clears his throat awkwardly, feeling his face heat. “That’s… not expected,” he says haltingly. “Templars can marry--although there are rules, and the Order must give permission, but…” Her eyes are beguiling, fixed upon him so intensely. “Some may choose to give up more to prove their devotion,” he explains, his throat tight. “But it’s, um. Not required.”

Asha turns the jar in her hands, once, and then again. Her voice is coaxing, trying to draw something out of him. She is tired, perhaps, of his avoidance in speaking for himself. She would know him. “What about you?”

“Me?” he croaks. He looks feverish. “I… um… No. I’ve taken… no such vows.”

Slowly, Asha sweeps her hand out, offering the jar of royal elfroot infusion to him. He doesn’t move, rooted where he stands with heat in his cheeks. The air around her feels thick when she draws a breath, feeling the bite of the worktable’s edge against her back. She leans into the sensation. “Five minutes to soak the cloth,” she says, all of the words feeling strangely full against her tongue and teeth. “Five to apply.”

Cullen moves then, his steps heavy as he approaches her--just close enough that he can take the jar from her outstretched hand. His fingers--large, gloveless, and rough with years of work--slide against her own for the briefest moment.

A shiver rushes through the both of them, nearly imperceptible. But there.

“My thanks,” he says, voice hoarse. His eyes are honeyed under her magelights’ glow.

“Ara melava son’ganem,” she murmurs, tipping her head to him. Her eyes are dusky and warm. “Cullen.”

Her words, foreign though they are to him, leave him breathless--as though she has reached her dainty, herb-stained hands into his chest and squeezed everything from him.

It should shame him, how much he relishes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From FenxShiral's incredible Project Elvhen, "Ara melava son’ganem - My time is well-spent. Similar to ma melava halani, is archaic and intimate. Rarely spoken to those who are not close friends, family, or lovers."
> 
> Up next: angst, probably. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


	6. Maelstrom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because--” Cullen starts, and then cuts himself off with a bitter frown. Whatever he might have said, smooth and convincing as he might have made it, is cast aside. He tries again. “Because in spite of what I would be, putting my trust in mages does not come easy.”
> 
> The words strike her between the ribs, Asha exhaling cool breath and a touch of anger into the air. “Yet I must put my trust in you,” she says. “As must all of our recruits. Conscripts or otherwise. It is you who marshals them for the mountain. You are responsible for them.”
> 
> He nods, accepting the blows as though they are familiar--as if he has battered himself with them before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, one step back. I don't buy that anybody was half as put together at times as the game had it.

_"I know you're bleeding, but you'll be okay._  
_Hold on to your heart, you'll keep it safe."_  
******\-- 'Various Storms and Saints' by Florence + the Machine**

* * *

 

The Asha that returns from Redcliffe with many conscripts is not the same woman that had left. She wonders if perhaps everybody is aware of that. She sees it in Cassandra’s gaze, ever-watchful upon her back when she rises from her tent and readies them for travel. The Nevarran woman approves of her choice--and Asha had known that she would... but.

But. There are shadows beneath Asha’s eyes that had not been there before. She spends most of her time silent, not because there is nothing to say, but because there is too much. There is too much that her mind trips and spills over, too much welling up within her that threatens to burst, but she must keep her composure. She must get them back to Haven. She must settle in the mages, she must speak with Dorian about Alexius and his Void-taken time magic, she must ask Solas about how he falls so easy into sleep and if he might teach her, she must assure Varric that she’s alright, she must speak to her advisors, give a report--

Find a way to stop the world from ending. Find out who the Elder One is. Find out, because there is a cold in her bones that will not abate. A cold that tells her that this will not end even when the Breach is sealed.

“Does the cold not bother any of you? Truly?” Dorian chooses that exact moment to ask. The fire blazes merrily before them, yet he still rubs his hands together fiercely, trying to make warmth. His sharp gaze falls upon Asha, looking her up and down. “Well, not you perhaps, with that lovely thing about your shoulders. Lambswool?”

That draws a smile from her that fails to reach her eyes; Asha runs a fingertip lightly against her mantle. It looks a little worse for the wear. Much like her, perhaps. “Fennec fur.”

Dorian’s perfectly shaped brows climb high on his forehead. “Imagine that. I should have something made for myself, if it’s going to be _this_ cold all the time--”

“Worse,” Varric says, peering down at a sheaf of notes in his hand. “Haven is right by the Frostbacks, you know.”

Dorian makes a noise of disgust, leaning ever closer to the campfire. “Wonderful,” he says, sounding as though it is anything but.

Cassandra frowns at the both of them, and then she glances to Asha. Softly, even though the camp is so quiet that she cannot keep the others from hearing, she asks, “Are you alright, my lady?”

Asha’s eyes are luminescent and haunted. She presses her fingers together in her lap, as though the little motions might ground her. They don’t. She still sees terrors and shades with bloody claws behind her eyelids when she blinks. “We will see,” is all she says, turning her gaze away to stare into the flames.

Red flashes in her mind’s eye, the echo of a high, warped keening that might be called a song echoing in her ears. She looks away, and she says nothing more for the rest of the night.

 

XXX

 

The tempest within her reaches a boiling point when she returns to Haven.

It is late, the chantry empty of any worshippers. Long shadows stretch across the walls, and Asha stands with her hands folded behind her as she listens to Leliana berate her. “They have suffered enough!” she says, voice heated as she speaks of the mages. “Why continue to mistreat them?”

She opens her mouth to speak, but Cullen cuts her off without realizing it. It only makes her angrier. “It is not mistreating them to take reasonable precautions.”

“Whatever you call it, the situation with the mages is unstable and likely to deteriorate, just as the Circles did,” Josephine says, her brow furrowed in worry.

Leliana meets her eyes directly, sparks snapping in her own. “What did you think we were doing?” she hisses. “Taking the mages prisoner?”

Fury rises sharp and swift within Asha, her heart burning as she thinks of what she saw in the bowels of Redcliffe--what would have come to pass, what might still come to pass. For a moment, the image of a withered, Blighted, bitter Leliana is superimposed on the very real one that stands before her, furious with her. Disappointed by her, in both times. Asha’s breath is a tremulous, desperate thing. “They are _not_ prisoners,” she says, stepping forward, her hands shaking. “They are _conscripts--”_

“Do you think they see a difference between the two?”

“ _Do NOT speak over me!_ ” Asha roars, and they are all startled when a burst of heat rushes through the room, as though invisible flames have sprung up in front of their faces, emanating from her. Asha’s breath chokes off in her throat, and as quickly as the change had come, it is gone, and she is heaving--seeing red, so much red. “Were you there, Leliana?” she whispers, desperate. The anger in the Orlesian woman’s eyes is gone now, replaced by muted alarm as she watches Asha steadily lose control of her emotions. “You, were you there? No!”

“My lady,” Cassandra begins, tries to calm her, but Asha steps away from her and still speaks, her voice loud and rising still.

“Do you think me a _child_?” she snarls, meeting each of their eyes in turn. Their gazes are all wide-eyed, gaping at her. “That I don’t _know_ the consequences of these actions? That I don’t _know_ that they were speaking in hushed whispers all the way back, of their fear? That the little ones asked if they were going to be kept in _chains_?” Her breath, her heart, is quickening, panic jolting in her veins like lightning--and she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe, can’t see anything but a distant sky swallowed whole by the Breach. Even so, she speaks, forces the words past her lips--she needs them to understand. “Do you really think, just because I come from a clan so far removed from here, that I don’t _know_ a thing?”

Jerkily, she raises her arm, palm exposed. The mark is an open wound. “I _know_ , Leliana,” she cries, sounding like an animal with its paws caught in a trap. “The empress of Orlais--assassinated. An army of _demons_ , the entire continent _destroyed!_ You! After a year of torture, after they--after they did _things_ to you, made you--I watched you--”

She gasps, ripping her hand back and forcing it to press against her mouth, or else she will vomit. It comes away wet, and when she tastes salt on her lips, Asha realizes she is crying. Has been crying. No wonder she can’t breathe. She turns her gaze on Josephine, who looks at her with horrified eyes.

“All of the nobles in Ferelden battered their armies against the castle walls three times, and they all died,” Asha whispers. Josephine looks away, her lower lip quaking.

Asha turns to Cullen. He is pale-faced, stricken. He looks as though he is seeing someone else when he watches her mania--unstoppable, uncontrolled. Her voice is hardly anything more than a sob when she says, “The Inquisition… ground themselves to a pulp ages before any of what I saw. Your blood, your bodies on the walls. On the grounds.” She shakes her head, turning back to Leliana. “I know. I know what’s at stake. I don’t… make choices _lightly_. I _can’t_ ,” she gasps. “I can’t.”

The silence that follows is a long, wretched thing. Asha’s face burns, tears drying on her cheeks as full breath slowly returns to her lungs. She forces herself to look at Leliana, forces herself to keep her head high even as the rest of her spirit shatters again and again and again.

It is Cassandra who speaks first, a solid presence at Asha’s shaking back. “The sole point of the Herald’s mission was to gain the mages’ aid,” she says matter-of-factly. “And she has accomplished that.” She glances to Asha, then--studies the deep shades of sleeplessness beneath her eyes. “She did not make prisoners of them, Leliana. I was there. All who are of age and are able-bodied are conscripts. And all who are not--who are infirm, elderly, or children--are under our protection. Those were her words to me, when it was said and done, and I support the choice she has made. I can see no better solution.”

Asha’s eyes slide shut, blocking out the painful light of lit candles in the chantry. Blocking out the shadows. Tears still slip through her lashes, unbidden.

“At last, the voice of pragmatism speaks!” Dorian crows from his place in an alcove, where he has gone unseen until now. Asha whirls to face him, the blood draining from her face in horror. But the look he gives her is understanding. Sympathetic, even. “And here I thought your Herald might be forced to drive herself mad before any of you would listen.”

Asha breathes deeply, shakily. “Dorian,” she whispers, a warning. He gives her a long look, but he tips his head in acquiescence and leans against a pillar, watching them with shrewd eyes.

“Closing the Breach is all that matters,” Cassandra says firmly.

“As soon as we can,” Asha whispers, swallowing hard. Her throat--all of her, really--feels ripped raw. Her fists clench and unclench so tightly that she leaves blood on the tips of her own nails. She can’t bring herself to look at the advisors anymore--she doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want their pity, their remorse, their lowered opinion of her after her complete lack of self-control--whichever of the three.

“We should look into the things that you saw in this dark future,” Leliana says after a pregnant pause stretches between them. “Empress Celene, assassinated… A demon army…”

“One battle at a time,” Cullen says, his voice steady. Asha can’t help but look at him, and of course, he is still watching her. “Mobilizing our troops and the mage recruits will take time. There is much to discuss.”

“Sweet, flaming Andraste,” Dorian huffs, throwing his hands up in exasperation as he pushes off from the pillar and strides towards Asha. “Can’t you see that our lovely Lavellan is near-dead on her feet? The Breach isn’t going to simply get up and walk away; I think you can spare her one night’s rest before you ask more of her.” He grabs her firmly by the shoulders and begins to march her towards the door. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll escort her right back in the morning. Now come, my lady--where is your cabin?”

“Wait,” Asha mutters, her head spinning. “You’re staying?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention?” Dorian says, winking conspiratorially at her. “The south is so _charming_ and _rustic_. I adore it to little pieces.”

He draws the first real smile out of her in a long while; it is temporary, but it soothes her. “Can’t think of anyone I’d rather be stranded in time with,” she whispers unevenly. “Future or present.”

“You have impeccable taste,” Dorian says, grinning at her. He draws her away again, and blessedly, none of the advisors protest. “But all the same, let’s not get ourselves stranded again anytime soon.”

 

XXX

 

Asha is aware of somebody outside of her cabin long before they reach the door, but she loosens her fierce grip from around her staff when she hears them knock. Anybody looking to harm her wouldn’t announce their presence. Still, she holds her weapon loosely when she rises from a bed that she doubts will bring her decent sleep this night and goes to answer.

Leliana is standing before her when the door swings open, looking solemn. “I apologize for disturbing you,” she says.

Asha’s eyes threaten to begin watering all over again, mortification sinking punishing claws into her, bleeding her with shame. “No,” she whispers, shaking her head. “No, I--Leliana, I hope you will forgive me. I--”

Leliana silences her with a serene wave of her hand. Asha swallows hard but does not speak, waiting instead for what she is certain will be bitter reproach. That is what she would deserve--there were so many ways that she might’ve made them listen to her, but the way she had done so was not a decent one of them. But instead, Leliana surprises her when she brushes past her, takes a seat on her bed, and says, “I think perhaps you know this already, but Warden-Commander Mahariel and I travelled together during the Fifth Blight.”

Asha nods once, remaining where she stands before the door. “Yes,” she murmurs, swallowing thickly. “I… I met her once, at the Arlathvhen. We were only children, then. She is… remarkable.”

Leliana nods, her eyes shining. “You remind me of the way she was, in a way,” she says enigmatically. And then she smiles. “Her temper was a fearsome sight to behold as well.”

“I--”

“Please,” Leliana says, gently. It stills the turmoil within Asha, just for a moment. She waits as Leliana draws a deep breath and continues, “There were many nights when we sat by the fire, and she wondered aloud if she was truly doing the right thing. We were all… so young, and very alone. At least, it felt that way often.” Her eyes are glassy when she looks to Asha and says, “I’m sorry. For making you feel the same. You, of all of us, know what is at stake. You saw it. We did not.”

“I should not have spoken to you that way,” Asha whispers harshly, brows knitting tight in anguish. “I disgrace my clan in doing so.”

“Nonsense,” is Leliana’s curt reply. “You are being made to endure things that no one could have prepared for. And you _do_ endure, whatever we ask of you. That is admirable.” Leliana rises from the bed then, coming to stand before her. “I may not agree with you conscripting the mages, but I was wrong to say that you were mistreating them. Wrong to imply that you acted without thinking. I allowed my emotions to get the better of me.”

Asha gapes at her. “As did I,” she points out, faintly.

Leliana’s smile is genuine. “Ah, we agree on something, then.” Although Asha does not laugh, or even smile--she is so tired, her reactions belated--Leliana does not seem to be offended. She heads for the door then, throwing a parting glance over her shoulder. “Take your time in the morning, Asha. We will meet in the war room whenever you are ready.”

“Thank you,” Asha murmurs, shell-shocked. Out of everything she had expected, it certainly hadn’t been that. She feels almost as though she should protest, tell Leliana that she doesn’t deserve an apology--not when she had behaved so awfully. But she blinks, and Leliana has already silently gone out into the night, leaving her alone once more.

 

XXX

 

What happened at Redcliffe has changed her. Asha feels as though she might never let go of that feeling--that terrible, all-consuming dread. There are many moments that play behind the closed lids of her eyes whenever she lays her head down to rest. Red lyrium bursting from walls--from Fiona, who she struggles to meet eyes with when she recalls her as a corpse that breathed and spoke, but would never again live because of the poisonous crystals springing from her body.

Fiona is not quite as amicable as she had been in Val Royeaux, nor had Asha expected her to be. Nor does Asha want her to be, even. They have a lengthy talk at Asha’s own request. The bitter sting of Asha’s fury at Redcliffe--her quiet steeliness when she had declared the mages conscripts, stripping them of choice--still throbs in them both.

But Asha does her best to mend what she fears remaining broken. “I don’t want to rule over you,” she says quietly, walking Haven’s paths with the Grand Enchanter. It is early morning, the center of the settlement sparsely populated with merchants and artisans preparing for the workday ahead. “Rather, I would like it to be clear that the Inquisition must--for now--be as wary of you as you are of it.”

“I would think you of all people wish to see us freed from oppression,” Fiona says curtly. “Not passed from one set of shackles to another.”

“There are no shackles here,” Asha says. Sometimes, she can still recall the feel of the ones she had woken in many months ago. “I would see to that personally.” She glances at Fiona and says, carefully, “Conscription does not mean combat, Fiona. I would not put unwilling people in harm’s way. I’ve spoken with Solas; he believes we only need a dozen strong mages to march on the summit. If you would include yourself among them, all the better. If more wish to volunteer, all the better. But for those who cannot fight, or those whose talents are better suited elsewhere…” She takes a deep breath, welcoming the steady chill in her lungs. “Those who are better suited to academics… I am sure researcher Minaeve would be all too happy to have extra hands. Alchemists or herbalists, I am sure apothecary Adan would say the same of them. And we are in dire need of those who can heal.”

“There are several capable healers among our ranks,” Fiona muses, her eyes turned to the path ahead. She appears deep in thought, considering the options that Asha lays before her. Her voice grows cold, though, when she asks, “And the young ones?”

Asha’s heart clenches tightly in her chest; that Fiona would think so little of her that she would question the well-being of children hurts. But Asha understands why. “If you have a schedule you would like them to follow, I would hear it,” she says, thinking of their education. “I am sure Mother Giselle would help you, as well. All I ask is that they not stray from the settlement, for their own safety.”

“Are they to stay near the encampment by the gates?” Fiona asks. _Where the Templars are_ , goes unspoken, but her voice is strained.

Asha swallows hard. “Cullen would not let anything happen to them.”

Fiona purses her lips. “Your commander is not the largest of my worries.”

“I understand that,” Asha replies easily. And then she thinks back to a moment weeks ago--the fight outside the chantry that she was certain would end in bloodshed. How quickly he defused the situation, and how firmly he commanded them. The knot of tension that sits heavy in her gut nowadays loosens ever so slightly. “He would not abide any misconduct from his men.” Her eyes flash then, dangerously. “Nor would I.”

The moment gives Fiona pause, then; she studies Asha carefully. Her regal bearing, the staff she always wears upon her back, the steadiness in her shoulders and her voice. The sincerity.

“Give me time, Herald,” she says after a long while. “You will have names soon enough. Those who volunteer to march on the summit, as well as those to aid in the running of Haven.”

“Asha,” she says, turning to face her. Her eyes are kind, violet in the day’s light. “Please, I prefer it far more than that title.”

Fiona nods. “Asha,” she says. The mistrust in her tone is far more muted now than it had been before. It is a start, at least.

 

XXX

 

“Lady Lavellan,” Josephine says, touching a dainty hand to her elbow one afternoon as they adjourn from the war room. “If I may, I was hoping I might have a moment of your time.”

“Of course,” Asha says softly, following the ambassador to her office. Josephine has been incredibly kind to her in the wake of her outburst only a few short weeks past, something which Asha appreciates more than words can convey. She avoids the topic of that night, but she has felt far more comfortable greeting the ambassador in her office as of late with little trinkets that she finds in her travels. She smiles when she sees the little vase of crystal grace she’d harvested from her last trip to the Hinterlands sitting on the corner of Josephine’s desk.

Josephine gestures for Asha to make herself comfortable before seating herself at her desk, gently tapping a finger against the blooms to hear them chime. She smiles at Asha and says, “I had a question for you, my lady. The remaining Grand Clerics have sent me a missive, inquiring about the events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.” At Asha’s raised brow, she continues, “They demand to know whether the Inquisition officially claims that Andraste saved you from the Breach.”

Asha’s quiet peace immediately shrivels to dust in her chest, but she manages to keep her expression neutral. “I see.”

Josephine’s expression is sympathetic. “If it were up to you…” she begins, “how would you reply?”

Asha briefly worries at her lower lip. “Would you like the honest answer, or the diplomatic one?”

Josephine giggles, but there is a touch of melancholy to her tone. “Honesty, please. You are always free to speak your mind.”

Asha thinks that Josephine might come to regret that statement, but she appreciates the sentiment all the same. Her cheer is almost infectious, the way that she is rarely without a kind smile or a kind word for her. Asha has held those moments close to her as of late, now that the burden upon her is one that she never spends a minute unaware of.

They do not help with the sleepless nights, however. A pity. But she sweeps the thought aside as soon as it comes into her head, clearing her throat and saying, “My honest answer would be… that I don’t, and never have claimed that. I don’t know what happened that day.” She glances down at her open palm, the mark hidden beneath fingerless gloves that she’d received from Vivienne just the other day. “I am not an agent of Andraste’s will, or your Maker’s,” she murmurs. “I am the First of my clan, a proud Dalish elf. And while I understand that we all need… reasons… for why things happen… that I am Andraste’s herald, saved from the Fade by her benevolent hands…” She snorts, shaking her head. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

Josephine’s brows knit together, just for a moment, but her expression is placid before Asha can figure out whether it is disapproving or merely speculative. The ambassador smiles at her, rising to meet her as she turns to go. “Asha,” she says, touching a gentle hand to her arm. “Thank you for your thoughts. Truly.”

Asha smiles at her, knowing that the missive Josephine pens in return will indeed extol her many virtues… as Andraste’s chosen, a symbol that unity regardless of one’s origins is more vital now than ever. But that she had wanted to hear Asha’s feelings before doing what needed to be done… That matters. “Of course,” she says, and then she is gone.

 

XXX

 

When sleep would deliver her to places that she would rather not see ever again, Asha takes to rising from her bed and dressing herself in warm furs. With her staff in hand, she leaves her cabin in the quiet of night, nodding to the guard posted outside and making her way through the empty paths. Sometimes, her ears catch soft chatter and laughter from the inside of Flissa’s tavern, a few stragglers inside unwilling to relinquish the heat of the fire and ale in their bellies in favor of the night’s chill.

Asha keeps to that chill, though, striding towards Haven’s gate on steps so light that they make almost no sound.

“Herald,” a guard greets her, a hand on the door. “Out for a walk again?”

She smiles, the motion perfunctory. “Just by the lake, as usual.” She nods in gratitude when he shoves the door open for her and bids her to be careful. She doesn’t worry that anyone might miss her; the twin moons hang high above, and she is certain that whoever Leliana has assigned to observe her as she observes everyone will be doing their duty in keeping an eye on her, if nothing else.

Asha passes the mock-barracks, now nearly tripled in size. Cullen has done his best to organize, and though she had certainly feared another incident like the one she had happened upon before her disastrous trip to Val Royeaux, nothing of the sort has come to pass. The mages and templars still walk warily around each other, mostly keeping to their own devices.

But they cannot ignore each other now, so close in quarters as they are. While the soldiers run combat drills with swords and shields, across the field the mages do the same with casting drills. Asha has participated in more than a few, with her rudimentary knowledge of proper form. Mostly, though, she stands between the two as a reminder--ideally--that she would be a bridge to unite, not divide.

It is slow going, though. She can’t deny that.

The training field is empty now, save for a lone nug that wanders lost through the snow. It scurries away when Asha passes by, headed for the rocky shelf that juts low over the frozen surface of the lake.

When she can’t sleep, she practices. In the dead of night, away from prying eyes. She casts off any fears about seeming suspicious--a lone mage, heading off to cast in the darkness. She does not care. The ritual grounds her, reminds her of home.

Slowly, Asha extends her arm out by her side, settling the blade of her staff deep into the snow. She circles once, steadily, listening to the crunch of it beneath her wrapped feet. The chill seeps into her skin, but she welcomes it like a friend. Breathing deeply of the crisp air, she draws her staff from the ground and whirls once, calling a flurry of frost to follow the motion.

Alone, she dances on the ridge. Hoarfrost climbs up the branches carved into her staff as she twirls it, up, and then sweeping low, and then fluidly around her body. The same motions, over and over, calling both the storm and the snow to manifest and meld before her. The air cracks, sparks arcing from the tips of her fingers as she passes her staff from one hand to the other, never ceasing in her movement. She drags her feet through the snow, kicking up flurries that spiral through the air when she bids them to. A barrier of ice ripples into formation around her, jutting up from the ground in a magnificent spiral only to split into little crystals that meld back into the snowbank.

She thinks of home, and she calls a blizzard, whirling wildly in the eye of her own storm. She is gasping great lungfuls of frozen air, tasting flakes and electricity in her mouth as she summons them, bids them to lift higher and higher until she is beneath it all, staring up into the massive maelstrom.

Asha slows, releasing what is left of her energy in a steady breath of cold vapor; the storm bursts from a ripple of energy, sending the snowflakes gently cascading back down to greet her. She lifts her face to the heavens, lets them kiss her skin.

“Come to watch over the mage, Commander?” she murmurs. The crunch of heavy boots in the snow has her turning, meeting his gaze with flat eyes. He wears his worry upon his shoulders, weighed down by that more than his thick mantle and pauldrons. It makes her frown. “No frightening rituals or summons from me,” she says, low and mocking.

“Asha.” His voice is steady, even though he doesn’t know what to say after that. He sounds wounded.

She looks away from him, then. Her stomach drops, ever so slightly. “Forgive me,” she murmurs. “I seem to… be handling this far more poorly than any of us would like, I think.”

Cullen looks as though he might protest, but whatever he sees in her gaze when she looks back at him makes him hesitate. His hands are folded behind his back, and Asha wonders if perhaps she is not the only one who has been suffering from sleepless nights. “You can’t expect yourself to not feel anything, given what you’ve seen.”

He sounds as though the words are something he’s said many times before. Her eyes narrow. “Why are you here, Commander?”

Several emotions flit across Cullen’s face, all of them gone too rapidly for her to discern. “I thought perhaps you might like some company,” he says at last, lamely.

She snorts, though her heart squeezes at the same time. They have not spoken much since her terrible outburst in the chantry, after Redcliffe. At that, she falters, turns her gaze down to stare at the staff in her hands. Suddenly, she feels bereft. The interior of the apothecary flashes in her mind, bathed in the glow of magelight and the scent of herbs in the air. Warmth. She feels as though something has slipped away from her, but she can’t figure out what.

They are alone out here. For some reason, that spurs her to ask, “What would you have done?”

He blinks at her, unsure if she means what he thinks. “My lady?”

She shakes her head at him, eyes nearly imploring. She would know. “What would you have done?”

Cullen’s lips thin, pressing into a firm line. He is reluctant, but he answers nevertheless. “I would have sought out the Templars.”

“Why?” It is a demand.

His eyes slide shut, just for a moment. “Because--” Cullen starts, and then cuts himself off with a bitter frown. Whatever he might have said, smooth and convincing as he might have made it, is cast aside. He tries again. “Because in spite of what I would be, putting my trust in mages does not come easy.”

The words strike her between the ribs, Asha exhaling cool breath and a touch of anger into the air. “Yet I must put my trust in you,” she says. “As must all of our recruits. Conscripts or otherwise. It is you who marshals them for the mountain. You are responsible for them.”

He nods, accepting the blows as though they are familiar--as if he has battered himself with them before. “Forgive me,” he says, because at least her forgiveness is something that might be achieved. Not so with the many others that he has failed by being a lesser man.

She considers it, but says nothing for a long while. And then, "You didn’t follow me out here, did you?”

His mouth twists. “Not from Haven, if that is what you mean. I saw you pass as I left the tents. I…” A huff, more frustrated with himself than with her. “I only want to know that you are well, Lady Lavellan.”

Asha’s brows climb high, but she can’t be rankled by the formality when she has already done her best to push him away, for no other reason than the fact that she cannot make sense of what she feels when she is around him. “I think that depends on what your definition of ‘well’ is,” she replies smoothly. “But you may walk with me, if that helps.”

He is by her side in the next moment, and she leads him back down the ridge, through the training field, to the gates of Haven. If the guard thinks it strange that she has gone out alone and returns with the commander, he says nothing about it.

Asha lays a hand against the cold wood of her cabin door, but she turns to look over her shoulder at Cullen. “I made the right choice,” she says. It is not a boast.

“In the beginning,” Cullen starts, almost abruptly. He brings a heavy hand to the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension that knots between his shoulders. It does not work, but still he says, “I had my doubts, my lady.”

“Naturally,” she drawls. Teasing. She relies on levity, because she would want to hit him otherwise.

His gaze is earnest when he says, “They are long gone, now. What you are capable of, what you have done for this Inquisition thus far… There are many in your place who would not have gone half so far as you have.”

Asha blinks, slowly. “I could have been anybody, Cullen,” she says. His name is so sweet on her tongue, even though the words are reproachful. His face changes then, subtly. A light goes on in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago--as though this is the first time the thought has occurred to him. “Can I ask you something?” she says, softly.

“What would you like to know?” he replies.

She turns, then, leaning her back against the door as she studies him. His hair is just the slightest bit unkempt, a result of the chill wind. His eyes are bloodshot, dark smudges beneath them. Despite the cold, his face is flushed. “What has you avoiding sleep?” she asks at last. The words hover between them like a secret.

It is a secret. And yet, she might have an idea. She is pushing, ever so gently, against him--testing resistance. She would know him.

But she would not force him to give anything that he is not willing to share. His throat works for a moment, brow pinching as something like panic flashes in his eyes. “I fear that is… more than we have time for tonight, my lady.”

Asha blinks, surprised. Less resistance than she had thought. “Another time, then?” 

“Yes,” Cullen breathes, sounding the strangest cross between reluctant and resolute. “Another time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: ready for the summit, I think.


	7. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha watches Cullen silently, waiting for the moment he realizes that she does not plan to escape. She had walked the Fade and lived. She had sealed the first rift, and many after, and lived. She had sealed the Breach and lived. She had returned to them, led them to the trebuchets and buried half of the Red Templars in ice and snow, and lived. She had saved every soul she could dig out of the flames and wreckage that Haven is now, burning as it does in dragonfire, and lived.
> 
> It must have been for this. So that she might do this, buy them time. So that the Inquisition would survive. So that they would live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, kiddos.

_"Glassy sky above,  
as long as I'm alive,  
you will be part of_ _me."_  
 **\-- 'Glassy Sky' covered by AmaLee**

* * *

 

_Da’len,_

_The news that you are nearly ready to seal the Breach has reached us; I hope you know that all of Clan Lavellan is with you in this task. There is not a day that goes by that you are not in our hearts. Would that we were with you right now, Asha. But I know your strength. I have watched over you, all your life, and you are capable of being a leader like no other. You do your clan proud._

_Keep your heart steady, Asha. Never waver from what you know to be true and right. Do not doubt yourself. You are Creators-blessed and born of the blood of Arlathan. With this letter is something that the clan had made for you long ago. I know, you were meant to have it when you ascended to Keeper, but I think it belongs with you now. Wear it with pride, da’len. Know who you are, and let the world know as well._

_We wait to hear from you again. Tuelanen ama na, da’lath’in._

_\-- Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

 

Asha’s vision blurs as she runs her fingers over the fine robe that her Keeper has sent to her. It is thick, sturdy leather laid over silver chain, clinking gently as her touch moves across it. Panels of deep lilac wool are weaved into the cuirass, the cloth spilling gracefully down the front and back from the waistline. It is regal, most fitting of a leader.

Asha weeps, thinking of how many days the crafter must have worked these materials, to put together something that leaves her so breathless. Her heart is so full as she sinks to her knees, sobbing. She sits there for a long while, until the midday sun hangs high in the sky and she must compose herself before her duties call her away from this greatest of gifts, away from her memories of home.

 

XXX

 

_Keeper Deshanna,_

_I cannot tell you what your letter and the clan’s gift has meant to me. Lately, I’ve felt so unlike myself that I was beginning to give in to fear. So much rests upon this--the Inquisition’s assault on the Breach. Weeks of planning and training, and I have wondered through all of it if perhaps everything good that these people believe of me is wrong. I have wondered if I am enough. If we don’t succeed in this, I don’t know what the Inquisition’s future will be like, or if it will even have one at all._

_Everything depends on this. I know that. And I struggled with it._

_But no more, I think. Giving myself to anguish and fear will not solve anything. It will not keep anyone safe. It’s as you said before--you are with me, all of you. And I would continue to give you reasons to be proud of me. To have faith in me. I swear, I will have faith in myself, no matter what happens. I pen this letter on the eve of our march to the Breach. By the time it reaches you, you will already know whether or not we’ve succeeded. Whether or not I have succeeded._

_You are with me, and my heart goes with you all as well. I will write again, after._

_Juviran ven es’an hama sul em._

_\-- Asha_

 

XXX

 

She is utterly resplendent in her armor, so much so that Cullen can hardly draw breath at the sight of her when she walks down the steps at Haven’s gate to meet them. Beside him, Leliana and Josephine let out appreciative murmurs. Even Cassandra looks a little stunned, her gaze following Asha as she moves towards them.

“Are those robes Dalish?” Josephine asks, eyeing the way the light glitters off of the silver chain adorning Asha. “I have never seen anything of their make before.”

“They are,” Leliana replies, smiling. “Ceremonial, I believe.” She glances sidelong at Cullen, who still forgets to breathe. “What do you think, Commander? Would you gladly stand behind a woman like that on the battlefield?”

“I--” Cullen croaks, and then he clears his throat. Leliana smirks at him, almost knowingly, and he does his best to school his expression into one of careful neutrality. He looks behind him at the rows of recruits waiting in formation; he does not miss the way that they all seem to stand at attention a good deal straighter and more silent than before. “Morale is certainly high,” he mutters, and Leliana’s answering giggle is like the playful chime of a bell.

“Herald,” Cassandra greets her when she stand before them at last; Cullen does not miss the way that Asha’s mouth thins slightly at the greeting. “We stand ready to march on the summit. You will lead us up the mountain path, to the Breach.”

“Of course,” Asha says, and her voice sounds almost serene in how self-assured it is. As though leading them is the most natural thing in the world. She holds her unique staff in a steady grip by her side. Her eyes are shining in the light when they turn their gaze on him.

“Commander?” she murmurs.

He inclines his head towards her. “The best of the mages are ready, my lady, as are my soldiers to escort you and ensure your safety.” He pauses for a moment, brows knitting. Everything that they have done--that she has done--is about to come to fruition. “Be certain you are prepared. We cannot know how you will be affected.”

“I am ready, Commander,” Asha says--her tone is fiercely determined. Steady. Unflappable.

It lifts his spirits, as only she can.

 

XXX

 

The air around the Breach is just as stifling as she remembers it, raw Fade energy flickering in the dark clouds that swirl high above them. Asha stands in the center of the crater where the first rift had once hovered months ago. She shudders as a chill wind sweeps through the area, catching the hem of her Keeper’s robes as it whips about her legs. Energy pulses through the jutting spires of rock that surround them, as if the Breach knows she is there. Her lungs feel heavy in her chest as she draws in a deep breath through her nose.

Her left hand, ungloved, throbs once. And then, raw magic hisses and bursts through the mark on her palm, bathing her face in an eerie, green glow. She hears Cassandra’s heavy footsteps come up beside her, followed by Solas’ lighter tread. Wordlessly, Asha turns to look at them.

_‘I must seal the Breach,'_ she thinks, her pulse fluttering rapidly. Cassandra’s gaze is intent, her dark eyes fixed firmly on her face, searching for the slightest sign of hesitation. Asha meets it, unwavering. Beside her, Solas stands with both hands on his staff, waiting for her command.

“Go,” is all she says to them. Her eyes are hard, her back ramrod straight. She will not fail them--any of them. Without another word, she turns away and marches steadily forward.

The dirt and ash of an explosion long past is cold beneath her feet. Her ears flick as she hears Cassandra call the mage recruits to attention, as Solas commands them to focus past her and cede control, to let her will draw the power from them that she needs. She comes to a stop beneath the eye of the Breach and looks up. It is so far away that she can’t make out what lays beyond, but she knows it is the open Fade.

Another steady breath, and Asha is raising her palm to the dark sky. Behind her, she hears the mages shout their assent and drive their staves deeply into the ground; she gasps, feeling magic course beneath her like a wild river. She plants her feet, tips her head back and pulls it in, welcoming the heady rush through her body as the power she holds is magnified many times over.

A pulse rocks through the area, and the mark flares to life; Asha grunts as her arm locks, and the magnetic pull is so strong that she feels as though the Breach is going to rip her arm from her body. There is a roaring in her ears that drowns out all else as thick ropes of viridescent magic snake from the Breach, floating eerily in the sky before they streak down to meet her. All the breath leaves her lungs as her hand is wrenched ever-higher, so much so that she stands on her toes and shakes as her arm burns in green flame and the sky ripples.

And then everything bursts; a crack so loud that it might’ve rent the heavens all over again cuts through the air, echoing through the mountains at the same moment that a flash of light blinds her. Asha shouts, squeezes her eyes shut as a blast flings her backwards, sending her body tumbling over rock and soot. Disoriented, her hands scrabble for purchase against the ground, and she manages to slide to a stop on all fours.

Asha bows her head, quaking at the phantom echo of the energy that had thrummed through her body. She gasps out her gratitude for Mythal’s protection as her limbs wobble, struggling to hold herself up. She remains like that, huffing in exhaustion and not trusting herself to stand or to look up at the sky and find it made whole once more. What if it hadn’t worked? The air is so still, so silent. What if--

She jolts at the touch of a firm hand upon her shoulder. It is Cassandra, extending a hand to her; numbly, Asha grips her wrist and allows the woman to pull her to her feet. Cassandra’s other hand clasps her shoulder tightly, and she is breathless when she says, “You did it.”

Asha blinks once, hard. And as she raises her head to look at the sky, a great roar of victory swells from the people behind her. She gapes, hardly daring to believe it.

The Breach is sealed.

 

XXX

 

Asha presses a hand to her mouth, swallowing her mirth as she watches a happily drunk Adan totter, cackling, on unsteady legs towards Minaeve and the merchant Seggrit as they dance merrily around the fire. She has never heard so much laughter--so much cheer--ringing through the settlement. The sound of it is as sweet as the melodies the bard Maryden plucks from her lute.

Asha hears the crunch of boots in the snow behind her; she turns, smiling, to see Cassandra approach. She nods to the woman in greeting.

“Solas confirms that the heavens are scarred but calm,” Cassandra says, folding her hands behind her back. Her cheeks are flushed, mouth quivering as though she wants to smile wide but must control herself. “The Breach is sealed.”

At that, they both exhale, relieved. Every time Asha thinks or hears those words, the vice that has wrapped itself so tightly around her heart these past few weeks loosens. Now, it feels as though it might’ve fallen away entirely. But she must not get ahead of herself. “There are still rifts that need sealing,” she says.

Cassandra nods and turns to watch the celebration happening before them. “And there are many questions that remain,” she adds. She glances at Asha. “But this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread.”

The huff of laughter that escapes her is quiet and quick. Asha shakes her head lightly and says, “I am no hero.” She flexes her hand for a moment, feeling the phantom tingle of the active mark. “Lucky, perhaps.”

“A strange kind of luck,” Cassandra says wryly, drawing another laugh from her. “I am not sure if we need more or less of that… But you have a point. This was a victory of alliance.” A beat passes between them. “One of the few in recent memory. With the Breach closed… that alliance will need new focus.”

Asha catches the hesitation in her voice--the unasked question. She reaches into the small leather pouch dangling at her hip and draws out a small, vibrantly painted figure. She tucks it neatly in the palm of her hand, glancing up at Cassandra once more.

“I don’t think you need to worry very much about that alliance,” she says. She extends her hand to Cassandra, palm up, and exposes the miniature image of an armored Andraste. She hears Cassandra’s breath hitch in her throat and says, “This reminds me of you a great deal. Fierce. I thought you might like it. I… As much as I dislike being called the Herald of Andraste, I respect you, Cassandra. Your faith is important to you; I understand that. Mine is very important to me, as well.”

“I…” Cassandra starts, hesitantly reaching out to take the little figure from Asha’s hand and studying it in the firelight. Her eyes are wide and shining. “I don’t know what to say.”

Asha chuckles. “You don’t need to say anything. Consider it a token of alliance. Of… friendship, even,” she adds, quietly. The chill wind rumbles through the mountain; Asha leans in and adds, almost conspiratorially, “I actually have trinkets for everyone, you know. In case we succeeded, I thought it would be a nice gesture.”

“It is,” Cassandra replies stiffly, not because she doesn’t appreciate it--but because she is so touched by Asha’s kindness that she hardly knows what to say. Her hand closes firmly around the figurine, and a small smile touches her lips.

The jarring clang of bells rings sharply through the air. “Forces approaching!” Asha hears someone roar; she whips around and catches sight of Cullen running for the gate, several troops hot on his heels. “To arms!”

Cold dread slithers up the length of her spine. Asha looks up, out past Haven’s walls; upon the far ridges of the mountain, she makes out the small glow of lights. Hundreds of lights, moving in the darkness, headed their way. Her heart leaps into her throat when she realizes that it was not the wind she had heard--rather, the wind had carried the far-away sound of marching to her ears.

“What is happening?” Cassandra breathes, automatically drawing her sword from its sheath. She is off running before Asha can say anything. “We must get to the gates!”

Numbly, Asha reaches up and removes her staff from its place upon her back. Feeling as though she is walking towards something terrible, something inexorable, she follows through throngs of people who all watch her with stricken faces. The laughter, the music--all of it is gone.

“What’s happening?” she hears someone gasp, feeling tugs on her armor as they crowd her.

“Herald!”

“What’s going on?”

Asha swallows hard and says nothing, breaking into a run--she has no answers for them. She hasn't the faintest idea.

Something is coming.

All of the advisors are already standing by the sealed gates when she arrives hot on Cassandra’s heels. Cullen turns to them with harrowed eyes and points to the mountains in the distance. “One watchguard reported a massive force,” he explains. “The bulk over the mountain.”

“Under what banner?”

Cullen’s voice is heavy. “None.”

Asha spares him a tense glance before she turns and steps towards the barred doors. Her fingers flex around the heft of her staff, electricity zinging over her skin. Suddenly, light flashes beneath the door, and it bangs heavily as though a great force has been thrown against it; Asha’s breath sticks in her throat as she instinctively summons a barrier that ripples over all of them. Cullen is at her side in an instant, sword drawn as he watches the door like a predator waiting to strike.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” cries a thin, plaintive voice. It sounds so childlike that Asha is moving forward before she knows what she is doing, unbarring the door and shoving it open despite Cullen at her back warning her to be careful.

She sees the lumbering frame of a heavily armored berserker greet her before he jerks, a thick, wet gurgle emanating from his throat. He falls to the ground with a heavy thump, revealing the crouching figure of a waif-thin boy in tattered rags behind him. Asha skids to a stop, Cullen nearly colliding with her as she does.

“I’m Cole,” the boy says, a touch desperate as he approaches her. Asha nearly jumps at the sensation of Cullen’s heavy hand on her wrist, pulling her back before the stranger can reach her; she lets him, her mind spinning as Cole continues, “I came to warn you--to help! People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know--”

“What is this?” she hisses, baring her teeth; the hair at the nape of her neck begins to stand on end, Cullen’s hand still upon her arm as her magic skitters over her skin. “What is happening?”

Cole steps close, and Asha finally catches sight of his large, pale eyes peeking out at her from under a fringe of fair hair. “The Templars come to kill you,” he says, his voice low and ominous.

A shudder rolls through her. “Templars?” Cullen snarls, leaving her side to advance on the boy; now it is Asha who grabs at his wrist, her little hand coming down hard on his gauntlets to hold him back. His gauntlets, with the Templar insignia upon them. She stares at them, not meeting Cullen’s eyes when he looks back to her, muttering, “Is this the Order’s response to our alliance with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

“The Red Templars went to the Elder One,” Cole says solemnly, leaning towards Asha who watches with wide eyes. “You know him? He knows you--you took his mages.”

“His mages,” Asha whispers faintly; red flashes in her mind. Red lyrium, crawling up Redcliffe castle’s walls. The Venatori plot, foiled. Dread wraps itself around her heart, squeezes tight. Suddenly, she remembers Cassandra’s disbelieving words from so long ago.

_“Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man that I remember.”_

No. Oh, Creators, no.

“There,” Cole breathes, turning to point at a mountain ridge in the distance. Asha’s gaze follows his finger, watching as a tall man in dark armor with glowing red spun through it comes to stand at the crest. He holds a sword in his hand, nearly as long as his body and with a wicked point that could no doubt slice through her flesh and bone with ease.

“I know that man,” Cullen whispers. Asha glances at him; all of the blood has drained from his face.

“Cullen?” she whispers, fearing. He looks at her slowly.

“I served with him, once,” he says thickly. “In Kirkwall.”

It is then that Asha realizes two things. The first is that the battle is headed for them, and she has no way to stop it from overwhelming them. The second is that when she made her choice to abandon the Templar Order all those weeks ago--the choice to seek out the rebel mages and leave them to their own devices holed up in Therinfal Redoubt--she had doomed them. And she hadn’t even known.

“Give me a plan,” she says to Cullen, drawing his mind away from wherever he has gone--whatever he sees in his mind that has brought the shadows back to cloud his eyes for a few moments. “Anything.”

“Haven is no fortress,” Cullen says, thinking quickly. His gaze alights on the trebuchets in the distance, construction on them having only just finished days before. “If we are to withstand this, we must control the battle,” he says, pointing to them. “Get out there and hit their force with everything you have--use everything you can.”

He turns from her then, striding back towards the open gates of Haven; in the time that Cole has spoken, soldiers and mages alike have marshalled by the gates, waiting for an order. Asha watches Cullen as he stands before them. “Mages! You--you have sanction to engage them! Their general is Samson; he will not make it easy!” He eyes his soldiers, and then he turns back to look at her. Asha feels her breath catch in her throat when he shouts, “Inquisition, with the Herald! For your lives, for all of us!”

The fervor in their eyes when they look at her--all of them, roaring, ready for battle as they ready their weapons and their shields--banishes the dread from Asha’s spine. Her breath rushes fast and heavy from her; they are looking to her. They are depending on her.

She would lead them. She would not let them down. She _cannot_ let them down.

No matter what she must do, she will keep them alive.

 

XXX

 

Asha’revas is going to die.

She kneels before Chancellor Roderick in the chantry, pressing her hands to the bloody hole in the front of his Chantry robes; her palms are awash in cool light, her magic knitting together the surface of his wound. He will die, too--but at least she can stop the bleeding for him. He watches her with wet eyes, a look that she wishes he wouldn’t give her.

“This could be more than mere accident,” he wheezes, touching the tops of her knuckles with unsteady hands. “You… could be more…”

She is going to die.

“Cullen,” Asha says, rising when Roderick’s skin is mended--though he still bleeds deep and will not stop--and turning. She meets his gaze without hesitance. Nothing, not even her voice, trembles. “Follow Roderick on the path out the back. Get everyone out. I will buy you time, as much as you need. Leave no one but me behind.”

His breath chokes off, his eyes going wide in disbelief. His throat works for a moment before he says, “You… What about you? What of your escape?”

Asha watches Cullen silently, waiting for the moment he realizes that she does not plan to escape. She had walked the Fade and lived. She had sealed the first rift, and many after, and lived. She had sealed the Breach and lived. She had returned to them, led them to the trebuchets and buried half of the Red Templars in ice and snow, and lived. She had saved every soul she could dig out of the flames and wreckage that Haven is now, burning as it does in dragonfire, and lived.

It must have been for this. So that she might do this, buy them time. So that the Inquisition would survive. So that _they_ would live.

_‘Forgive me, Keeper. I will never return to you.’_

Cullen’s expression shifts, then, as the silence stretches between them. He looks as though someone has struck him. “Asha--”

“Ready your men, Cullen,” she says, her voice gentle. Her eyes are shining, so big and lovely. Even now, with her russet skin covered in ash and blood, she is so lovely. “Keep their shields up, and fire a flare when everybody is past the trees up the mountain. And tell the mages to mind their barriers." She pauses, breathing deeply. "And please, bring me Leliana. I will only borrow her for a moment.”

“Perhaps you will surprise us,” he says, his words tumbling fast from his mouth as his pulse quickens; he very nearly reaches for her, for her small and steady hands. She doesn’t sound defeated, doesn’t sound resigned. She sounds at peace, and he feels anger bubble up within him, rushing hot in his blood. She should not be at peace with this--she should not be _ready_ to _die_. “Perhaps you will find a way.”

Asha smiles at him, slowly, serenely. “Please, Cullen,” is all she says.

He does as she asks. When the orders are given and the troops stand ready to escort them out--when the Herald’s inner circle watches him go to the front of the chantry with Leliana by his side, when they all watch the lone figure that Asha is, standing before the great wooden doors with her staff in her hands--

He stands back and prays that this is not happening.

Asha’s voice is quiet as she speaks, not turning her head to look at Leliana. She keeps her eyes on the doors; if she doesn’t move, she might not cry. “If you can’t find a body,” she murmurs, ignoring the sharp breath that Leliana draws. “I would only ask that you plant a tree, then. Somewhere. Bury an oak staff beneath it, and tell my clan--” Her voice hitches here, quivering. “--I fulfilled my duty. I protected… my people. Please.”

“It will be done,” Leliana whispers after a long while. “May your Creators guide you.”

Asha’s eyes slide shut as fat tears begin to roll down her cheeks. “May your Maker guide you.” Though Leliana leaves her, she can still sense a presence behind her. The footfalls are heavy, booted. Cullen is at her back. She sniffs thickly. “You must go, Commander.”

“Asha.”

His voice is so raw that she turns towards him before she can tell herself not to be such a Void-taken fool. Asha gazes up at him with watery eyes, a tight smile on her face. “Dareth shiral, Cullen,” she whispers hoarsely. Deliberately, she lays a hand upon his own, resting atop the pommel of his sword. He does not shake. Energy hums in the air between them--and he can see her magic rippling before his eyes, a barrier melting over her. After, he can no longer feel the warmth of her hand.

He must go. And she must stay. “Dareth shiral,” he murmurs.

Her eyes glimmer in the soft light. “Terrible pronunciation,” she teases.

He feels as though a stone has lodged itself in his throat. “Perhaps you might correct me, then. Later.”

Asha hums quietly, thoughtfully. She says nothing in agreement; she merely watches him. Cullen is transfixed by her gaze. How strange, he thinks, that at one time the sight of her eyes made him flinch. But the thought now that he might never look into them again pains him, makes him feel as though somebody has cracked his chest open and reached in, drawing out the sweet and light and leaving him hollow.

Cullen feels as though he is failing her when he turns and walks away. Leliana is at the far side of the main hall, waiting for him. She says nothing of his private moment with Asha. They go together, through to the back, when he hears it. Her ethereal voice, echoing solemnly through the chantry. Beside him, Leliana stills for a moment, water in her eyes as the sound of Asha singing in Elvhen fills the air. 

It is the loveliest dirge Cullen has ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say that I'm proud of myself for not overdoing the romantic undertones in this chapter; ain't nobody got time for that when death is coming. I like to think I found a good balance.
> 
> Elvhen translations from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen:  
> "Tuelanen ama na - Creators protect you."  
> "Da'lath'in - Little heart, somebody who wears their heart on their sleeve."  
> "Juviran ven es'an hama sul em - I shall walk the path they lay for me."  
> "Dareth shiral - Go safely on your journey."
> 
> Up next: Asha battles the Red Templars. It gets very dark, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel.


	8. Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High above the treeline, Cullen watches as the mountain crashes down upon what remains of Haven, burying Asha’revas Lavellan with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of sad and gory, I guess. It's also my favorite chapter.
> 
> I know mood music is quoted, but there's another chunk of a song that really should be listened to in the scene where they find Asha, and it's the outro to 'As You Are' by The Weeknd. It's got a really eerie, nightmarish sound that literally shaped the scene in my head.

_"Inside, I've been shaken,  
my sanity taken._  
_Our broken halves, they intertwine_  
_from once was yours and once was_ _mine."_  
**\-- 'Glassy Sky' covered by AmaLee**

* * *

 

Death is a natural part of life. Asha knows this. She has never expected to have any control over what takes her from this world and places her at Falon’Din’s side for the final journey. Waiting for it as she does, Asha reminds herself that it is not the Inquisition’s fault. Though grief rips through her, unparalleled by anything, she believes that. They would not have chosen this for her, had any of them actually had a choice.

 _‘But I wanted so much more,’_ Asha thinks, running to meet her fate.

She calls the flames of Haven’s wreckage to meet her, wreathe her as the Red Templars bear down on her. Arrows whistle through the air, striking her twice in the shoulder even as she dances through fire and snow, felling a handful of their monstrous marksmen. She rips them from her, letting the pain that radiates through her arm fuel her fury as the next wave approaches; three knights, their flesh and armor fused as blood-red crystals sprout from them. Asha breathes hot, whirling in place and feeling the air around her crackle ominously; lightning splits the sky, striking once, twice, three times around her. One Templar falls, but the others remain, coming for her.

 _‘I wanted to see my clan again,'_ she thinks, a blade catching her across the stomach, spilling her life onto the ground. Her barriers have long since become useless, unable to hold steady while she recklessly exhausts her power on attack after attack. After all, it isn’t as though she needs to worry about magical exhaustion--she will die regardless of the method. She only needs to hold out long enough to turn the trebuchet and catch sight of the flare. Asha whips the end of her staff up, the wicked blade cleaving easily through mutilated, red-veined flesh. Another Templar staggers, and then tumbles down; she finishes them by summoning a stalagmite of ice from the ground, watching as the Templar pierces himself upon it.

 _‘I wanted to go back,’_ she thinks, calling a storm once more; static arcs from her with another twirl of her staff, locking the last knight in place momentarily. It is enough; she severs his arms from his body and burns him to ash. The smoke is thick, the scent of death acrid in her nostrils.

She is crying, though, when she reaches Cullen’s last trebuchet, just below the mountain on the fringes of what was once Haven. Lyrium-crusted horrors are waiting for her, shrieking as they lash out, too quick for her to escape. A blow cracks her head back, metallic bitterness gushing from her lower lip as another pierces her side and cuts up. The earth shivers beneath her, the only warning before shards of ice spring from the ground and form a lethal barrier around her.

 _‘I wanted…’_ she thinks, watching the inhuman bodies fall, gurgling. She has bisected one through the middle; another is still impaled, still writhing, screeching.

The third horror rises again, _spits_ red lyrium at her; it tears through her arm, through and through. Asha cries out, stumbles back, tumbles down. It leaps on her, straddling her as it raises its red lyrium-blade of an arm and strikes down; Asha lets go of her staff to catch it, feeling the skin of her hands cut to ribbons as she expels a blast of spirit energy so great that it shatters the crystalline appendage. She bucks, heaves it up and off with nothing more than sheer strength of will; they are tumbling in the ash and snow until she is astride it, choking the life from it, encasing it in solid ice.

It was a person once. That thought rings in her head as she stumbles up, dragging her staff from the snow and running for the trebuchet. It was a person, before she condemned it to its end as a frozen, mutilated corpse. Or maybe the death had been when it turned, from Templar to horror.

Maybe it does not matter. When the behemoth comes, Asha thinks it does not matter.

 _‘I wanted to stay,’_ she thinks, as quick-footed as she can be when she is bruised, battered, bleeding as its heavy strikes spring shards up from the ground wherever it swings. _‘I wanted to stay with the Inquisition and see this through_ ,’ she thinks, privately admitting her close-held secret as she manipulates frost to dance as she does. A swirling vortex surrounds them, slowly chilling the behemoth bit by bit. It moves slower, now--but then, so does she. It swings its heavy, blood-red claw down.

She is too close, too slow. Her bloody palm flies up, her magic sputtering for half a breath before her barrier melts around her like sludge, too slow, too slow--the claw finds its mark, catches, pierces her chest before all the willpower that she has left within her explodes out in a blast that makes the ground quake violently. Asha hears the behemoth groan, hears it crack and _shatter_ into great, ugly pieces at last.

 _‘Too slow,’_ Asha thinks ruefully, her legs giving out from under her. She numbly presses her fingers to her chest, feels the slip of her palm against all of the blood that has gushed out from the edges of what will no doubt be her fatal wound. Her breath comes shakily, thick and wet as she braces her weight against her staff and drags herself to the trebuchet’s crank.

Pain sets her aflame as she turns it and aims the machinery towards the mountain that she will bring down upon herself.

 _‘Imagine,’_ Asha thinks when it is done at last, her breath gurgling in her throat. She hobbles to the lever that will trigger it to fire. _‘A little Dalish mage, toppling a mountain.’_ Her eyes trail up the horizon, memorizing the last sight she may ever see. In the distance, Haven’s chantry still stands. Above that, there is the mouth of a valley where what is left of the Inquisition escapes. A thin smile touches her blood-crusted lips, makes her ache.

After all of this, they have become Asha’s people as well. And at least her people will survive. Perhaps, in some way, she will be with them.

 _‘All of them_ ,’ Asha thinks. A faint memory of a crooked smile and rough hands with soft touches goes hazy as it lingers in her mind.

 

XXX

 

“That is the last of them, Commander,” Cassandra breathes, turning glassy eyes upon Cullen. For a brief moment, her gaze flicks to the lost settlement below--to the dark shadow of a Blighted dragon prowling the fringes where _she_ must be. “Signal her,” she urges.

Cullen’s gaze is on the heavens as he nocks the arrow and aims it for the sky. ‘ _The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next,’_ he thinks, hands trembling. He pulls back on the bow as far as it will go, until it creaks in his grasp. Beside him, Grand Enchanter Fiona silently sets the cloth-wrapped tip ablaze with a wave of her hand. _‘Fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see flame and go towards Light.’_

He fires.

 

XXX

 

Asha sags heavily against the side of the trebuchet, gasping for breath as she stares at a Blighted creature who would style himself a _god_.

“The Anchor is permanent,” he snarls, soulless eyes affixed on her hand. “You have _spoilt_ it with your stumbling.”

Her fingers flex, but she hardly has the energy to lift her staff, much less to cast. Asha curls her lip and spits at him, blood flecking the ground.

“So be it,” Corypheus intones, advancing on her. “I will begin again,” he vows. “I will find another way to give this world the nation and _god_ it requires. And _you_ … I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”

Asha cannot help the crow of laughter that escapes her, even as the squelch of her wounds bleeding accompanies it. She is near-delirious from all of it, everything, waiting for the final blow of this foul, sentient darkspawn. He thinks she will quiver and cower before him; Asha hopes that he is ready to be disappointed.

And then she sees it behind him, over him--from the ridge in the distance far above Haven. A light. A _flame_ , rising ever higher in the night sky.

 _‘Cullen,’_ she thinks, gripping her staff so tight that her palms burn as she staggers up, braces her back against the trebuchet as she rises to her feet. Her heart throbs painfully in her chest, surging with emotion. Asha’s gaze slides slowly back to Corypheus.

She grins. “Nuva uralas telsyl na i’ga syl nyel laimem,” she hisses wickedly. And then she turns, raising her staff high above her head with a cry, pain searing every nerve in her body as she brings it down upon the trebuchet’s lever; the force of a blow as strong as steel sends it spinning, the counterweight crashing down as the sling swings up. Asha laughs, breathless, as the projectile crashes into the mountain, the force and echo vibrating in her ears until nature is roaring, cascading down towards her.

She stumbles back, her staff slipping from her weak hands, eyes bright as she watches the avalanche. Her magic is gone, burned out; she couldn’t even light a candle if her life depended on it. One foot behind, and then another, and then--

She is falling.

 

XXX

 

High above the treeline, Cullen watches as the mountain crashes down upon what remains of Haven, burying Asha’revas Lavellan with it.

 

XXX

 

“I'm going to search for her.” All the conversation in the advisors’ tent grinds to a halt, stricken silence filling the air. Cullen does not waver as they lift their gazes from the map on the makeshift table--nothing but three precariously balanced planks of wood--before them, gaping at him. It is so late it might be early, and they have only just managed to set up a hasty, inadequate camp. But he would not spend another moment sitting around.

And then Cassandra speaks, her fist clenching tightly over a small object hidden within her hand. “I will go with you.”

“Cassandra,” Leliana says, but the Seeker will not be dissuaded. Nor will he. Even so, Leliana presses them. “You cannot think that she is alive out there,” she says, though the nearly imperceptible tremor in her voice has Cullen thinking that perhaps she would like nothing more than to hold to that hope as well.

It doesn’t feel like hope, though. It feels like ashes in his mouth and an ache that will not abate--not when Cullen thinks of the way that Asha had pressed her hand to his in the chantry. Not when he thinks of the roar of a mountainside crumbling, the sound still ringing in his ears. He shudders. “I will not leave her _there_ ,” he bites out.

“And walking down the mountain in a blizzard is wise?” Leliana snaps, her eyes hard, chips of ice. “Just how far do you think this Inquisition will go with its commander lost as well as the Herald?”

“She is lost _because of us_!” Cullen snarls, drawing up to his full height, a terrible glower on his face; he knows his eyes are wild, and he does not care. “Because _we_ left her there. If all we were going to do to her was _bury_ her, we might at least do it properly! I would not think so highly of an Inquisition who left its Herald’s corpse in the snow once her usefulness ran out.”

Leliana’s voice rises as she rounds the table, a clamor as Josephine comes to stand between them and pleads that they not give in to their anger, but Cullen doesn’t care. He’s had enough--they are vicious, hurt, shouting at each other--

A loud bang and the sound of wood splintering cuts through the air, draws their attention. They all turn as one to look at Cassandra, who has nearly driven her fist through the table. Her eyes are furious, a deep scowl marring her features as she glares at them and hisses, dangerously, “That is _enough_.” Her eyes flash at Leliana. “We will go out and search for the Herald.” And then her ire is directed at Cullen. “We will only go as far as the mouth of the valley.”

Cullen bristles; that’s hardly far at all. “She isn’t--”

“And you will mind your tongue, _Commander_ ,” Cassandra spits, as though his title is an oath. Her voice trembles from the force of her anger. “If the Herald gave her life because of this Inquisition, then you will not malign it or her sacrifice. You will not _disgrace_ her--you are _not_ the only one who mourns.”

Cullen’s mouth snaps shut as he blanches, cowed into silence. Shame coils in his gut, rotting his insides like poison. So absorbed in his own feelings was he--the loss and the loathing of himself, because he should have been able to leave her with something, he should have been able to save her--that he had forgotten just who Asha is to all of them.

His heart throbs. Who she had been, he corrects himself.

Though he is certain, now, that their search will not turn up anything, Cullen goes with Cassandra at his side into the darkness. The howling of the wind has abated some, stillness steadily blanketing the pristine slope as they make their way to the top of the valley. He thinks it a terrible irony, that nature is so beautiful in this moment while not far from where they are, Haven is a mass grave. Bodies are buried in the same snow, howling wolves prowling where they all once stood.

One of them is hers.

Cullen grits his teeth and walks on. Beside him, Cassandra says quietly, “You know we cannot stay here long, Commander.”

He scoffs bitterly. “Where would you have us go, Lady Cassandra? Is there perhaps _another_ near-empty village close by to shelter us all? Do tell.”

Cassandra’s voice is flat when she responds, “This churlish attitude does not suit you.”

Cullen has to bite back another ill-mannered retort at that. She is right. He knows she is right, he knows that this behavior is unbecoming of a man of his position, and he knows that he owes apologies and far more respect to his colleagues than he has afforded them just now, but he just--

He just aches. The loss is indeed not merely his own, but even so. Even so, he cannot stop thinking of Asha. It rubs him raw, leaves him feeling as though someone has peeled the skin from him, stripped him bare, left him vulnerable in a way that he hadn’t even known he could still feel.

“She was fond of you,” Cassandra says after a long silence, the both of them scanning the dark horizon. He freezes, his chest tight.

“She was fond of everybody,” Cullen manages to respond neutrally. It is not a lie; he can think of countless moments where he had seen her warming her hands by a fire with Varric, caring for the mounts with Blackwall, chatting with Iron Bull and the Chargers, exchanging secretive smiles with Sera, laughing about something with Dorian, walking through the chantry with Vivienne’s arm threaded through hers, examining artifacts with Solas…

He had seen the looks on their faces, all of them, when they realized that she would not be following them through the mountains. And he would rather think of that than the way Cassandra’s words cut deep.

Cassandra doesn’t seem to care, walking onward, forcing him to keep up. “She was,” Cassandra agrees. “But for the sake of… providing comfort, I suppose--”

“Cassandra,” he begins, warningly.

“You cannot lose your head, Cullen,” she snaps. “Not when we have so far to go and much to do. If it helps you to remember that she held you in high regard, then remember it. She _was_ fond of everybody. She _was_ fond of you, she--”

“Cassandra--”

“--was always searching for healing herbs for you, writing--”

“Cassandra, _wait_ ,” Cullen gasps, throwing an arm out to halt Cassandra’s steps. Though the darkness makes it difficult, there is a faint glow in the distance that draws closer and closer with every second that passes. He blinks, wondering if perhaps he is imagining it, but then--

Then he hears it. The familiar, and yet not, thin warbling that makes his throat run dry and his pupils dilate. It sounds wrong. Warped. But he would know that sound anywhere.

Lyrium. The raw, undiluted mineral singing to his blood; his face flushes, then, as though what little might remain in his body is reacting to the sound. To the sight. He blinks again, his vision blurring for a moment as a sharp pain pierces the base of his skull, right before everything snaps back into focus. And then he realizes that the glow is red, steadily coming up the slope of the mountain.

“A Red Templar?” Cassandra hisses beside him, and he hears the dual sounds of metal sliding against metal as they both instinctively unsheath their swords. “This far up? The--” Her voice dies in her throat for a moment. When she speaks, it is wavering. Grief-stricken. “The Herald… should have buried them all.”

“If one crawled out of the snow, others may yet follow,” Cullen growls, stalking forward as the rapid thump of his heart practically booms in his ears. He grips his blade so tightly that the bones of his hand creak; he is shaking with rage. That _this_ lived to claw its way up the mountainside to them, while she--

He freezes when the clouds break high above, allowing the pale light of one moon to spill over the snow. The figure that shuffles towards them is clearer now. For a Red Templar, they are small in frame, hunched as they are, wearing bloody leather and lilac wool instead of plate. And then all the breath leaves him.

Cullen’s sword slips from his fingers, left behind in the snow as he runs. “It’s her!” he shouts, ignoring Cassandra’s cry of warning, and then her cry of shock when she realizes that yes, yes, that is Asha--small, shivering Asha clutching at her arm as she steadily drags one foot forward, and then the other, through snow nearly up to her knees. Asha who is stumbling, who is crashing to the ground, who is--

Cullen reels as though somebody has struck him with all the force in the world. He slides to his knees, reaches for her. The wind whips her hair from her face; her eyes are dim and unfocused, but she sees him enough to reach back and lay her frozen hands upon his wrists. She holds him back from touching her.

The song is so loud, screeching in his ears because Asha has a massive shard of lyrium jutting from her chest. Cullen thinks he might be ill.

“Maker, no,” he murmurs, unmoving. Despite the fact that the mountain is freezing, sweat is beading on his forehead as the ancient song keens in his ears, the lyrium pulsing with heat. He swallows, hearing Cassandra stumble beside him and cry out in horror.

Asha licks her cracked lips, flecks of dried blood staining them. “Cullen,” she gurgles.

“The healers,” he chokes, catching her shoulders as she slumps. His voice is frantic as he rises, moves around to sweep her into his arms without disturbing the terrible wound on her front and roars, “Cassandra, go! Prepare the tent, get the best of the healers ready!”

Cassandra has already turned, flying back to the camp as fast as her powerful legs can carry her even before he finishes his sentence. Cullen’s chest heaves as he moves, half-formed prayers tumbling from his lips as he carries Asha down into the valley of where they have taken refuge. She is so small, barely weighing anything in his arms. He tries to speak to her, murmurs her name, but though her eyes are wide open, she is unresponsive. The only sound in his ears is the song, but he won’t--he _won’t_ hear it, will not let it consume him, will not, will _not_ think of bending his head, pressing his tongue to the place where it pierces--

“Fuck,” he spits, shaking. He can hear the clamor of their people in the camp, can make out the figure of Cassandra racing into one of the healer’s tents they have managed to erect. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swears, again and again and again like a litany so that his voice might drown out the sound, might keep him grounded for both their sakes. He will not fail her again; he cannot.

Not when she has done the impossible. Not when she has come back to them.

Cullen’s head is throbbing. He is at the camp, calling his troops to form a barrier around him so that the curious will not push through. He will not allow them to see Asha like this. He nearly stumbles into the healer’s tent, Cassandra sweeping the flaps of the entrance open before drawing them shut behind; the lyrium shard in Asha’s chest paints the walls with a sickly, red glow.

Vivienne is before him in an instant, Dorian and Solas as well as the Grand Enchanter and two other healers standing beside an empty, raised cot. “Lay her there,” she commands, her bare hands bathed in soft, healing light. Cullen deposits her on the surface as gently as he can, stepping back to stand beside Cassandra.

He will not leave. He cannot. Not when silence blankets the tent as they all stare at Asha’s body, horrified.

It is Dorian who whispers, “Is she--”

“She’s alive,” Cullen snarls. Cassandra shoots him a concerned glance, but her eyes are drawn back to Asha in the next moment. She looks as though she is seeing a ghost. Or a corpse.

“She is,” Vivienne mutters, stepping close and running her hands in the air above Asha’s body, down the length of her. “She is breathing. Barely; we haven’t much time--somebody fetch Bull, _now_ ,” she orders, her voice pure steel.

“I will go,” Cassandra breathes, rushing out of the tent. Cullen remains where he stands, watching as the mages circle Asha, leaning over her broken, bloodied body. The magic of many hums in the air.

“Commander,” Solas speaks, his eyes peering over the tops of their heads to look at him. “A dagger.”

Cullen reaches for the one at his hip, offering the hilt to Solas; he takes it, and then the sound of cloth ripping fills the air. Cullen screws his eyes shut, willing the blood and the song to stop rushing in his ears, willing his heart to steady its beat, willing himself to stop seeing the _red_ , stop confusing things. Stop confusing things, he tells himself, because the walls are red and there is mage blood on his armor, but it is not _that_ mage blood, and he is not wearing _that_ armor anymore, he is not there, he is not--

“Commander,” Vivienne snaps, and Cullen’s eyes shoot open. She is looking at him over her shoulder, eyes sharp, tight lines at their corners. “Come stand at the head of the cot. Quickly.”

He obeys numbly, just as Bull’s massive form pushes into the tent, Cassandra behind him. “How is she?”

“What a _stupid_ question,” Dorian snaps just as Vivienne speaks again.

“Come here, Bull--Commander, your hands on her shoulders, please,” Vivienne orders. “Hold her down.”

Cullen’s stomach turns at the last. “I…” he begins weakly. He is confusing things again, he is confu--

“Commander, you _must_ hold her down because Bull is going to rip the chains of her armor--it must come off, and we must get the lyrium _out of her body_ ,” Vivienne explains, her voice as urgent as he has ever heard it. “We do not have time-- _she_ does not have time.”

“Yes,” Cullen replies mechanically, and he is at the head of the cot, staring down into Asha’s unfocused eyes. He feels as though he is in somebody else’s body--or perhaps somebody else is in his, bringing his hands up and pressing them down at her small shoulders. Blood seeps into the cot beneath her. They have cut away at the cloth and sawed away at the leather; all that is left is the chain. Cullen keeps his eyes on Asha’s face even as Bull is moving in his field of vision, his massive hands carefully ripping the rest of what remained of her Dalish robes as though the metal were paper.

“Sweet, flaming Andraste,” he hears Dorian hiss as Solas mutters something in Elvhen.

Asha’s body is a mangled thing, covered in dark bruises and blood--Cullen fears for how much of it is her own. Fiona and her healers work, mending her flesh, magically sewing wounds with every second that ticks by. He hears Vivienne order Cassandra to hold down Asha’s legs, hears her say, “We must act fast; this shard is too large to stay in and dangerous to pull out. She is awake, she may feel this, she may scream and thrash-- _do not_ let her move unless you want her _dead_ on this cot.”

Cullen’s hands are steady. He keeps his eyes fixed on Asha’s face. Her listless gaze bores into him, although he doubts she even knows he is there. He draws a sharp breath through his nose and immediately regrets it, his stomach turning at the scent of so much blood.

And then it begins. Vivienne is leading, a barrier around her hands alone as she wraps steady fingers around the shard and slowly, slowly pulls.

Asha’s pupils blow wide, and that is Cullen’s only warning before her body jerks and her mouth opens, stretching in a bloodcurdling shriek that makes him feel as though he might vomit. His hands tighten upon her shoulders, bearing down on her so that she can’t escape from the sensation. But she tries. She tries, but she is pinned in place as she screams and screams and screams until it is the only sound in his ears, far more devastating than the song and he would do anything--he would do _anything,_ Maker, make it stop--

Her head tips back, a low gurgle choked in her throat just as Vivienne shouts that they’ve got it, the shard is out--mend the wound, cauterize what bleeds too heavily, and then--

Asha vomits blood, a sudden gush of it spurting from her mouth and spilling down her face; Cullen flinches as he presses a hand to her jaw and pushes, laying her cheek to the cot so that what streams out of her mouth spatters the ground and doesn’t fill her lungs. His breath rattles from him, and he faintly hears Vivienne shoo him away from Asha, faintly feels Cassandra’s hand at his elbow, tugging him to stand at the wall of the tent.

Asha’s blood drips from the cot’s edge, slowly. Her eyes are glassy and unmoving--but her chest still rises and falls. The healers still work, still talk, still move their hands over her for what feels like hours until their magic sputters and threatens to fail them, and even then they still work. They press sterilized cloth to her, sop up the blood, and then wrap her in bandages. Over her chest, the lyrium wound. Around her belly, what was a gash from a sword. Around one shoulder, arrows that had pierced her. Cullen’s eyes slide shut. He might’ve slipped into a trance, because the tent is quiet when he opens them again, save for everyone breathing heavily.

Vivienne stands above Asha, her bloody hands raised. “That is all we can do this night,” she says, voice quiet. “The rest is up to the Herald.”

Cullen swallows hard. They have already asked so much of her, this he knows. But he would ask her for more. He would ask her to live through this night, and the next, and many nights after that. On and on. 

He would be a supplicant, beg her--not Andraste, not the Maker, only her--that the next time she looks at him, it would not be with such vacant eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>
> 
> Elvhen translations from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen:  
> "Nuva uralas telsyl na i’ga syl nyel laimem - May nature strangle you with all the air you have wasted."
> 
> Up next: Cullen returns a favor.


	9. Elfroot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen’s fingers brush lightly at Asha's temples when he lays the compress against her forehead. There is a tightness, a tension within him that does not come from his withdrawals as he looks down at her hand, peeking out from between a gap in her covers. It, too, is heavily bandaged. The scent of elfroot has filled the tent, and he thinks of her again as he lays his hand on the furs next to her own. He thinks of her, deftly plucking wild herbs, making poultices, twirling her staff with the grace of a dancer, deliberately laying her palm atop his knuckles as she says goodbye. Something warm and unbidden pricks at the corners of his tired eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol leave me to my romantic fanfic cliche and all of my feelings.

_"Where things grow, there is hope._  
_All that heals has hope."_  
**\-- 'VON' by Yoko Kanno ft. Arnor Dan, translated**

* * *

 

Instead of sleeping that night--which he suspects would be about as successful as trying to rebuild Haven in a day, from the ground up--Cullen sets up a private tent with the aid of Rylen and a few other Inquisition soldiers. The pale light of dawn is only just beginning to peek over the horizon when the task is done, and Cullen watches with exhausted eyes as the healers carefully transport Asha to it, settling her within.

She has survived the night, and he no longer feels as though he is going to burst out of his skin with emotions that he can’t afford to linger on just yet, perhaps not ever. Vivienne catches his eye when she emerges from Asha’s tent, frowning lightly as she approaches him. “She is not free from peril just yet, Commander.”

Cullen swallows thickly. “I know,” is his rough-voiced reply. Though the mages had done their best to stop her bleeding and knit her flesh, Asha has not yet stepped back from the precipice of the abyss.

There had been so much. So much blood, so much that she had suffered through--and none of them can predict what trauma she will be left with when she wakes up. Cullen grits his teeth, a vein jumping in his throat. _If_ she wakes. He can hardly bear bringing himself to hope for the best; optimism isn’t exactly the greatest of his skills, nowadays. Perhaps--no, most certainly--when he was a gangly farmboy from Honnleath, but most days that seems as if it were another life entirely.

Pigheaded, Leliana calls him later--only half unkindly--when he finally musters the courage to approach her and apologize for his behavior last night. She isn’t wrong. “You are lucky that you brought her back last night, Commander,” she says. “Her presence saves the two of us from having _words_ , after your outburst last night,” she adds, deliberately, and Cullen remembers at that moment that Sister Nightingale likely has more daggers on her person than he would like to know.

His smile is thin-lipped, but his eyes are shining. “Yes, I’ve noticed she has a talent for saving people,” he quips. He glances down at his hands, then, resting on the pommel of his sword. The Templar insignia he wears flashes in the light. His voice goes a little quieter when he adds, “Even the most unworthy of us.”

Leliana draws a sharp breath through her nose--when Cullen glances back up, her gaze is terribly soft with compassion. She looks over her shoulder at Josephine, who watches them carefully--more than ready to intervene should tempers flare again, though she looks relieved to see that they won’t. “A jest,” she says incredulously.

Josephine smiles. “Imagine--Cullen Rutherford with a sense of humor,” she teases lightly. “Though it’s a little--”

“Self-flagellating,” Leliana deadpans. Her eyes are sparkling with mirth.

Cullen snorts. Again, she isn’t wrong.

 

XXX

 

Despite the brief uptick in his mood, the precarious reality of the situation that the Inquisition finds itself in hits Cullen--all of the leadership, really--by midday. In spite of managing to set a tentative schedule for the next few days, their haphazard council winds up devolving into the same circular arguments that they had been trying to avoid. None of them can come up with a viable solution as to what they should do next.

“We cannot afford to remain here for longer than a few days, at most,” Cullen says, frowning down at the map they have laid out on their flimsy, makeshift war table. He points to their assumed position and says, “We are further north than we were; if we were to go to Redcliffe for aid, we would need to pass back down through the ruins.”

“It’s too risky,” Leliana says, frowning deeply. “We don’t know if anything else crawled out of the wreckage; we cannot take everyone back through that.”

“Perhaps if the commander sends troops down to scout the area?” Josephine suggests, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her chin. “Or, I could send petitions to the closest nobles in Orlais.”

"What birds I saved are unavailable at the moment, in any case," Leliana says quietly. "And that--"

“That would still take too long,” Cullen finishes the thought for her, folding his arms. There is a hard knot of tension between his shoulders that only grows more irritating with every second that passes--more so when he feels as though they aren’t accomplishing anything. In truth, they have no viable options. “There are children among the mages; they should not remain in the cold. Neither should the injured.”

The tent falls silent for a long moment after that, all of their thoughts turning to one person. Cullen cannot help himself; he turns his head, then, glancing past the entrance to where they convene; Asha’s private tent is right across the way. Solas has set protective wards around it, and the Iron Bull has assigned his Chargers with guard duty; the entrance is never unmanned, watched carefully by their Dalish mage at the moment. He watches as Vivienne and Fiona leave the tent, piles of soiled bandages in their hands.

“I think she should be named Inquisitor,” Cassandra says. Cullen’s gaze whips to her; she is also staring at Asha’s tent, though she glances back in time to catch him gawking at her. He is not the only one; Cassandra narrows her eyes at all of them, her cheeks going red. “What?” she snaps. “We’ve avoided the issue until now, but with the Breach sealed--do not pretend as though it is not the most logical choice. More than that, even.”

“We should ask her,” Josephine murmurs after a long moment, sounding lost in thought. She fiddles with the ragged hem of her sleeves, brows furrowed. “We have already… asked so much of her. Her feelings on the matter should be considered, first and foremost, when--” She pauses then, blinking. “If…”

“If she wakes up,” Leliana says quietly. She frowns. “And even if she does, she will still need time to recover. Though Vivienne and the Grand Enchanter are watching her closely for any signs of poisoning, we can’t predict what effect the red lyrium in her body will have.”

“They removed it all last night,” Cassandra says. For a brief moment, her eyes flick to Cullen, an unspoken worry lingering in the air between them. He looks away, jaw clenching as he draws in a deep breath of the chill air.

“She didn’t ingest it,” Cullen says, quietly. All eyes snap to him. “I can only imagine that’s what the Templars have been doing in the months that it took us to close the Breach, to look as they do now. And…” He very nearly chokes on the name, the back of his head beginning to throb. “Meredith walked around Kirkwall for years with a sword made of it.”

“Meredith Stannard was a disciplined Templar for many years before she was a madwoman,” Leliana points out.

Cullen bristles at that. “And Asha is not lacking in willpower by any means,” he snaps. “She was conscious when I found her, and she didn’t look mad. Maker only knows how long she was fighting, and then crawling up the mountain, with that _thing_ in her chest. If it didn’t kill her then, I don’t imagine she would let it best her now.”

A pregnant pause stretches between them, Cullen feeling his face heat when he realizes that three very perceptive women are all watching him with very knowing looks in their eyes.

“Well, we are in agreement then,” Cassandra says nonchalantly. “She would be most suited to the role.”

“I--”

“Leliana?” Cassandra continues, as though he hadn’t even spoken. Cullen’s mouth shuts abruptly, teeth clicking; though she is not wrong, and he _does_ think that a woman like Asha would make a fine Inquisitor--especially considering all that she has done for the sake of holding the Inquisition together--surely this is a conversation for another time.

Like when she is conscious, as Josephine had suggested.

But this conversation, at least, is headed to the obvious conclusion. “After no word from Warden-Commander Mahariel or Marian Hawke, that a woman like Asha would simply… drop out of the sky,” she begins, an enigmatic smile touching her lips. She lets out a soft breath of laughter and shakes her head, says wryly, “Sometimes it really does feel like.. divine providence.”

Cassandra smiles approvingly and then turns to Josephine. “I would not put this to Asha without all of us being in agreement,” she says. “Because a woman like her would not take this position otherwise. She would not even consider it if we were not all behind her.”

Josephine’s smile is small but full of hope, her eyes glistening. “She _was_ born to lead,” she says, and they all fall into silence. Cullen wonders if they are all thinking the same--that the life Asha led was supposed to be far different from what it is now. For a moment, a memory flashes through his mind of tattered Dalish robes and silver chains spilling to the ground. He frowns then, deeply.

He hadn’t seen Asha’s staff, he realizes. The lovingly crafted weapon from her clan--the one that she had wept over the thought of not seeing again.

 _‘Perhaps I’ll ask Rylen to keep an eye out for it,’_ Cullen thinks, deciding that after they take stock of what they’ve managed to save, perhaps he will put together a troop to scout for supplies they might be able to pull from the ruins of Haven.

 

XXX

 

Asha remains asleep, even well into the next day. By then, the camp has begun to fall into a somewhat orderly state--people work to figure out what they have to survive off of, as well as what they need. Small patrols have been assigned to watch the perimeters for any sign of a Red Templar that has managed to escape the destruction of Haven. Not, though, because the Inquisition’s people seem to fear it.

Rather, Cullen decides to arrange it as what seems to be an unnecessary precaution; as he oversees his troops, he hears a great deal of whispering about the Herald of Andraste being brought back to life by the Maker’s own benevolent hand. Cullen frowns; though he understands that people are desperate to have hope, and the boost in morale that follows is astonishing, it is nothing more than gossip. And it rankles him every time there is a commotion by her tent as a result of whichever of the Chargers is on duty having to shoo away curious people and their prying eyes.

 _‘She nearly died_ ,’ he thinks, scowling as it happens yet again. The last thing that should be happening is anybody not of her inner circle disturbing her rest, and from that moment on, there is always a Charger on duty--with the addition of two of his own men keeping watch.

Perhaps that, on top of Solas’ wards, overdoes things a bit. But Cullen finds that he does not care--finds, in fact, that he would much rather Asha wake to know just how much everyone has been thinking of her. After the way they had left her there, they owe her all that and more.

He doesn’t need to worry about that, though. The pilgrims may pry, but the inner circle practically dotes on her, as much as any of them can.

Vivienne is in Asha’s tent no less than three times a day, cleaning her wounds and changing her dressings. Cassandra is in there almost as often--Cullen catches her frequently slipping through the entrance of the tent with a book in her hands. Other times, when he passes by, he hears the sound of Varric idly humming tavern tunes as he pens letters by Asha’s bedside. When Sera visits, she always secures the flaps of the entrance open to air out the tent, ridding it of the scent of old blood. This does not concern him as much as it should; the one time Sera had caught somebody peering in as she’d loosened Asha’s braids and combed gentle fingers through her hair, she’d chased them away hollering a string of vulgarities so foul that he’d smiled for an hour afterwards.

Whenever Sera leaves, Dorian always enters immediately, burying Asha’s prone form under a mound of warm furs and neatly braiding her hair once more. He talks to her about things of little importance; his voice carries to the advisors’ tent since they are so close, and Cullen spends a great deal of time reading reports there. Thus far, he’s heard Dorian complain about the wind, the cold, the dirt, the snow, and the little halla figurine that Blackwall had whittled for her.

“I mean really, you wouldn’t think the man had opposable thumbs--it certainly looks like he wasn’t using them,” he says, scoffing. A beat passes, and then Cullen hears, “Looks especially drab next to this lovely, painted figurine here--though honestly, armored Andraste? The _irony_.”

Another day passes, and still, Asha sleeps. The healers crowd her tent at one point late in the afternoon, which sends Cullen’s heart leaping into his throat--but his worry, though it steals the breath from him and makes him reel, makes him want to cast aside the reports in his hands and go to her, is unneeded. His eyes are on them as they leave Asha’s tent, and Vivienne reports to Cassandra--who reports to the advisors, after--that her condition remains no worse, but there is no marked improvement beyond what they are hoping for. She is healing, certainly, but she has yet to wake up.

Cullen releases the breath he is holding; Asha is fine. She is asleep, still--but she will be fine. He repeats the thought over and over, hardly realizing at first that he’s crushed the supply report with the force of his grip. He sheepishly smooths it out as best he can, eyes skimming the pages, his mind on another matter entirely, until--

He rises and heads for the apothecary’s tent without a word to anyone else, his work set aside for the time being. Adan hears him enter and nods in greeting. “Commander,” he says gruffly, laying down the bundle of dried herbs he is tying. “Do you need something?”

Cullen’s gaze scans the tent for a moment. “I was just going over the supply list--” At that, Cullen looks back to Adan. “You managed to save some royal elfroot?”

Adan nods, idly scratching at his beard as he turns and motions to a sealed jar--a familiar one that makes Cullen’s throat tighten when he sees it. “It’s the Herald’s supply,” he says. He gives the commander an odd look and asks, “You need something made? Have you been to the healers?”

“Actually,” Cullen murmurs; for a moment, his mind is elsewhere--a cramped cabin with the soft glow of magelights in the air, and soft eyes watching him. Practiced, herb-stained hands. He swallows what would’ve been a heavy sigh. “I was hoping you might spare me some. A few leaves, I think. And… the use of your tools, for a moment. I won’t be long.”

“Of course,” is Adan’s reply, and he glances around the tent awkwardly for a moment. “You’ll need to ask the healers for spare cloth, though, for her compress.”

Cullen nods and says nothing else, and it is dim enough in the tent that he thinks the apothecary will not catch sight of the way his face reddens, at that. Cullen removes his gloves, tucking them away and carefully arranging the familiar ingredients and tools before him. The sight of it makes a dull ache throb in his chest as he takes a fingerful of the royal elfroot and begins the work of grinding it to pulp with the pestle and mortar.

His efforts are not as smooth as Asha’s had been, though a faint smile quirks the corner of his mouth when he realizes that he has learned from observing her after all. He tries to mimic her as best he can, tipping the pulp into the little pot Adan provides him with only when the herbs’ oil stains his fingers. Outside, he scoops handfuls of clean snow into the pot and takes it to the fire pit, waiting far longer than usual for it to finally heat.

The infusion smells the same as it does when Asha makes it, the sharp scent clearing his head--Cullen can’t help but feel the slightest bit proud of himself when he decants it into a little bottle and seals it before making for the healers’ tent. This, at least, he hasn’t mucked up.

Considering who it’s for, he would’ve done it again if he had. Would’ve asked for help, even, as silly as he might’ve felt for it.

He does not expect to find her alone when he finally enters her tent, so he is not at all surprised to see Dorian back at her bedside. He blinks up at Cullen, brows rising as he crows, “ _Commander_ , how lovely of you to grace us with your presence.”

“Dorian,” is his flat reply; the other man smiles, clearly amused.

“Forgive my enthusiasm; I will leave you to your visit,” he says, rising from his seat.

“It won’t take long,” Cullen assures him; Asha would be better with talkative company, he thinks, rather than him with his silence. If he thought he could linger without murmuring apologies for everything--for failing her, as he had, and leaving her to the Red Templars--he would. But he’d come to, hopefully, aid her recovery, not to hinder it.

Dorian pauses at the entrance and gives him a thoughtful glance. “How are you faring, Commander?” he asks.

Cullen’s grip flexes around the jar and cloth in his hands; his bones ache. The restless nights are catching up to him, but he cannot risk waking half the camp with night terrors, so he forces himself to remain awake until his body cannot bear the burden any longer and drops him into unconsciousness just long enough to recover without dreaming. “Fine,” is what he says.

Dorian looks unconvinced. “Do take care of yourself,” he says, a gentle warning more than mere suggestion. He glances to Asha, just for a moment; something unspoken hangs in the air between them, but he leaves with a parting nod rather than saying it aloud.

It’s not as if Cullen doesn't know, and it's not as if he needs the reminder. That he is no good to her--to anyone--if he cannot keep himself together. He has said it to himself many times, and Cassandra just as much.

Rather than linger on his own thoughts, Cullen silently turns to Asha, his gaze falling on the planes of her face. His heart squeezes in his chest, raw emotion rocking through him; the healers have dedicated much of their energy to her--that she has only new scars and yellowed bruises now is a testament to that. But she sleeps with a deep, pained pucker between her brows that he stares at while he soaks the compress.

He thinks, briefly, of the way that she had screamed that night. Cullen draws a deep, bracing breath; his gaze remains on her face, not sweeping low, not wanting to see the bandages that circle most of her torso. He swallows hard and reaches, carefully, to pluck the hem of one of her furs up, covering her to the neck.

The silence unnerves Cullen more than he had anticipated. It is punctuated by nothing more than the sound of their breathing--his own, steady, and hers, ragged. Softer than it should be. It’s nothing like their comfortable silences that had stretched in between talks in the apothecary, or by the fire. Nothing like when they were in the war room of the chantry, the advisors reading briefs while she leaned over the table and scanned the map for where she would travel next, where she would do good in the Inquisition’s name next.

Cullen’s gaze would linger on her, sometimes. In more recent times--before everything--she would catch him staring. She would tip her head to the side in askance, and he would look away and hope fervently that the heat did not rise too high in his cheeks.

He swallows hard, wringing the cloth and realizing that he should not be thinking these thoughts right now. Perhaps not ever. Almost certainly, not ever.

Even so. Cullen’s fingers brush lightly at Asha's temples when he lays the compress against her forehead. There is a tightness, a tension within him that does not come from his withdrawals as he looks down at her hand, peeking out from between a gap in her covers. It, too, is heavily bandaged. The scent of elfroot has filled the tent, and he thinks of her again as he lays his hand on the furs next to her own. He thinks of her, deftly plucking wild herbs, making poultices, twirling her staff with the grace of a dancer, deliberately laying her palm atop his knuckles as she says goodbye. Something warm and unbidden pricks at the corners of his tired eyes.

Cullen stills. He blinks once, and then again. Her hand is--

“Cullen.”

His gaze shoots to Asha’s face. Her lips, chapped and parted, a fresh scar cutting down through the bottom one. And her eyes--

Her eyes are half open. Fluttering, gaze hazy, but she is _looking_ at him. She sees him, her dainty fingers curving over the top of his hand, her touch nearly unmanning him as the breath in his throat abruptly chokes off into something that might be _dangerously_ close to a sob, as quiet as it is. Her slender ears twitch at the sound, and he can’t help the flood of emotion that locks him in place, though he should be calling for the healers. He is transfixed by her gaze.

“You’re alive,” she croaks, sweet relief in her tone despite the fact that her breath hitches in pain.

“I am,” he whispers. Her hand is still on his. He should really get the healers.

Her eyes go glassy, tears welling. “ _I’m_ alive?” she whispers faintly. Hesitant. Hardly daring to believe it.

“You are,” Cullen chokes. Unthinkingly, he turns his hand, palm up, and grasps her own, achingly gentle. Her fingers are warm. “You’re alive.”

 

XXX

 

Asha feels about as useful as a newborn halla calf, trembling and unsteady. She also feels like she’s been trampled by a herd of druffalo, twice.

Getting her bearings had been difficult. Disorienting. When she’d woken in the tent, her forehead cool, her body warm and aching, she had thought perhaps she was having one last dream. When she’d opened her eyes and seen Cullen beside her, his ungloved hand on the furs next to her own, she’d been certain of it. A final dream, borne of the last thing she’d seen, before her soul disappeared into the Beyond. It had to be. She was convinced of it, which prompted her to reach out and touch him. To say his name.

And the motion had burned wicked fire through her arm--her heavily bandaged arm, she realized. And he’d been so warm. And when he’d looked at her, he’d--

Well. She’d known then, that it wasn’t a dream. The realization had dropped on her chest like a bag of stones, punching the air from her.

He’d gone to get the healers, and they’d come back to find her crying, head tipped back against the cot and hot tears seeping into her hair as she gasped for breath. The relief had unraveled her.

“Are you in pain, my dear?” Vivienne had murmured, by her side in an instant, tugging the furs from her body and running hands bathed in soothing magic over her torso.

“Yes,” Asha had choked, eyes impossibly wide as she gaped down at her damaged self. Damaged… but ultimately whole. “But I’ll-- _live._ ”

She would live. And from the sounds of the camp--shouts, overjoyed cries and gasps and whispers about her, about the _Herald of Andraste_ who’d been delivered from death by the hand of the Maker Himself--she is not the only one who is happy to know that. Though she would disagree with that--she thinks, perhaps, that Mythal’s blessing truly was upon her that night--she would never turn away good faith. Her people are happy.

She spends that next day still confined to her cot, though. Asha doesn’t trust her legs to hold herself up if she tried to walk alone just yet--and plus, she can hear Cullen’s men and the Chargers on guard rotations outside--and so she rests. Everyone--the inner circle, the advisors--takes a moment of the day to visit her. All of them, she notes, look at her differently than they had before.

As if she is someone changed, now. Someone _more_.

But when she is alone at night, the sound of the mountain wind howling against her tent in a way that makes her remember things, makes her hesitate to fall asleep--Asha can’t help but feel that, in one way, she is less than she had been before.

Dorian had returned the remains of her Keeper’s robe to her; it is nothing but tatters, now, though she can see that it’s been scrubbed of the blood. She clings to a scrap of lilac wool and presses it to her cheek, weeping. It is only a robe, she knows. And she knows that when she finally gets the chance to write them, her clan will rejoice that she is alive. That she is alive is what matters. But perhaps part of her had died, there.

The woman she’d expected to be, she thinks. She is still the proud First of her clan, but the idea that she might one day ascend to Keeper seems more of an abstract thought now than it ever has. Without her dearest possessions--the things she’d lost that reminded her of it, like her robes and staff--the change is acute.

Asha had meant it, when she’d thought about how desperately she’d wanted to stay with the Inquisition. And now that she is alive, awake, the thought burns in her heart like an unquenchable flame. _This_ is where she is meant to be, for the foreseeable future. She knows it to be true. And her Keeper had to have known it as well--otherwise, she would never have sent those robes.

She will return to her clan someday. Or perhaps they might even come to her, wanting to be a part of this. But right now, there is no going back. Asha has been forever changed.

But even so, she will move forward. She feels like she owes herself that, as well as everybody else. She can't dwell on what she no longer has--that would be unworthy of her. And so, she rises the next day, manages to slowly, agonizingly dress herself in borrowed robes by her bedside and stumbles her way to the entrance of the tent. She nearly collapses in the snow out front--she would have, were it not for Krem standing guard outside and catching her before she falls.

“Shouldn’t you be resting, my lady?” he says, a touch of nervous laughter in his voice. He glances around for the nearest healer, but Solas and Cassandra have already spotted them and are making a beeline for Asha.

She smiles, a little tightly, and pats his arm. “Perhaps,” she says. “But there’s work to be done.”

“I think not!” Cassandra shouts as she approaches; she grows flustered when Asha beams and reaches for her, threading an arm through her own.

“Cassandra,” she says as breezily as she can manage, though her body is already aching, and her legs are trembling. “There you are; I thought you might help me with some physical therapy.”

“You should be _resting_ ,” Cassandra snaps, her face red as she bears Asha’s weight.

“Again, perhaps I should,” Asha agrees, glancing at Solas. He looks like he can’t decide whether he should be amused or worried. “But I think we can all agree that there isn’t much time for that.”

“Indeed,” Solas agrees, and then he glances at Cassandra. “If I may, Seeker, I would be willing to go through some gentle casting exercises with Asha. Nothing strenuous--but we should move from here soon. We cannot do that if she is not in decent condition.”

“Exactly,” Asha breathes, huffing as she hobbles from Cassandra to Solas. The former still looks unhappy about this--but she can’t deny that Solas is right. And Asha knows it; she’s been unconscious for days. They cannot stay in this valley; they must go somewhere, even if she doesn’t know where.

Knowing that, for once, she has been bested, Cassandra frowns and folds her arms. “Fine,” she bites out. “But I will watch over you.” She gives Asha a pointed look and warns, “Do _not_ overdo it.”

Asha gives her a rueful smile, thinking of the heavy bandages still wrapped around her body. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs. But they will worry anyway, she knows. And that thought fills her with warmth.

 

XXX

 

Cullen’s reaction when he steps into the advisors’ tent later that evening and hears that Asha has collapsed in the snow earlier is, admittedly, less than composed.

“You _let_ her train?” he hisses, nearly shaking; his head is throbbing, bright spots of pain bursting behind his eyelids. “Have you lost your senses?”

Cassandra actually rolls her eyes at him; neither of them is the most level-headed sort of person at any given time, but at the moment, she is certainly doing better than he is. “She was casting with Solas,” she says matter-of-factly. “Her legs gave out; I took her to the healers, and then to her tent. She is _fine_ , Commander.”

Cullen just barely manages to stop himself from retorting that she was the farthest thing from fine mere days ago, but he wrests his self-control back from the brink, somewhat. He is exhausted, Rylen has led men out to the ruins of Haven to search for supplies and not returned yet, and the last thing that he wants to hear is that Asha is exacerbating her injuries.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs when he realizes, then, that her tent is right next to theirs, and she can probably hear every word. “Forgive me,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I am only… concerned.”

“I’m aware,” Cassandra deadpans. She shoots a look at the table behind them; Leliana and Josephine are watching the scene with a little too much interest. “Now, if you have calmed down--”

“I am calm enough,” Cullen interrupts peevishly.

“--Asha suggests that we head north,” Cassandra finishes, ignoring him. “There is an abandoned fortress in these mountains. One that can easily hold us, and more.”

“I can send my scouts out and have them report back,” Leliana says, leaning forward in her seat. Cassandra holds up a hand and shakes her head.

“No need,” she says. “Asha says that Solas has already seen it in his dreams. She assures me that it is secure, and she will lead us there. It will be a day’s walk, at least. She would like another day to improve physically before we move out; in the meantime, we should prepare for the journey.”

Josephine’s frowns, hesitant. “Won’t she need more time than a day?” she asks. “We have no mounts to spare for her. A walk that long--”

“I agree,” Cullen says, the image of Asha on the cot _that night_ flashing unbidden in his mind. His jaw tightens as he takes a beat to compose himself. “I would not see her injuries worsen because of this, Cassandra.”

Cassandra folds her arms and watches him with sharp eyes. “Asha has assured me that she can do it. I believe in her, Commander.” Her voice drops low then, so quiet that he just barely catches her next words. “And I think it would be best for everyone who would follow her to see that even now, so soon after what we have all been through, she remains strong.”

That gives them all pause; Cullen had forgotten, in his relief at Asha’s awakening, that they would name her their Inquisitor.

If she would have it.

“Perhaps our commander would like to speak to her, then,” Leliana murmurs, her eyes glinting. She folds her hands on the table and watches him akin to the way a hawk watches prey when it circles overhead. “See if she has the resolve to lead… on the journey to the fortress,” she adds deliberately.

Cullen’s mouth twists; he doesn’t doubt that she is needling him on purpose. But even so… he would like to speak to Asha. If only because he feels, for whatever reason, that he needs to hear confirmation that she can do this from her own lips. Without another word, he stalks out of the tent, missing the way that Leliana smirks when he goes--as though something she’s long suspected has just been confirmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: a journey.


	10. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all that Asha disdains about the Chantry--their exclusive, at times aggressive piety, and their casual acceptance that lingering punishment for apostasy is normal and necessary--this song that she has never heard before reminds her of none of that. Her ears twitch, picking up the melody with ease as Mother Giselle’s voice carries behind them on the wind, reaching the many who follow.
> 
> This too is a song of hope. And Asha finds herself almost taken by it, especially when she hears the clear, ringing voice of Leliana--hardened, questioning Leliana--join in first. And then, more voices rise up on the trail, soft but full of feeling, until many are singing. United.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a beast of a chapter!

_"Lady, beautiful, of the sun--  
if you give to others, lady, beautiful, of the sun,_   
_should it not also be given to me?"_   
**\-- 'Mage Pride' from the DA2 soundtrack, translated**

* * *

 

“Boss,” Bull calls from outside the entrance of the tent; Asha stiffens, and the sudden tension sends pain searing through her. “Cullen wants to talk to you.”

Asha blinks, relaxing almost immediately. She slowly rises to sit up on her cot, gathering the furs about her lap. She frowns at the discarded robe in the corner of her tent; if she tries to stand, she is going to fall over. And that would be far more of a blow to her dignity, she thinks; she is decent enough. “Let him in,” she says, conjuring dim magelights above her before fisting her hands in the furs and waiting.

Cullen freezes when he brushes through the entrance and catches sight of her. “I--” he stutters, and Asha holds up a hand to cut him off.

“It’s fine,” she murmurs, watching him carefully. He looks more startled than uncomfortable at the sight of her, hair unbound and body bare from the waist-up save for the bandages wrapped about her breasts and down one arm. “I--the spare robes hurt, and I… was not expecting anyone to come see me this late.”

“Forgive me,” Cullen breathes, his eyes firmly fixed on her face and absolutely nowhere else. “I--I will only be a moment. I wanted to speak to you about--”

“I heard,” Asha says softly. Her right ear twitches, and Cullen looks embarrassed. She smiles, shaking her head in amusement, and gestures to the seat at her bedside. “Please.” She waits until he is beside her before she says, “I know you’re concerned, but really. I will be fine.”

He frowns. “Asha--”

“We have no choice, Cullen,” she says solemnly, looking up at him through her lashes. “We cannot stay here any longer--you know that.”

“I do,” he agrees, voice tight. His hands ball into fists on his lap, flexing momentarily. Asha sees the familiar pucker between his brows. “But you--”

“I will be _fine_ ,” she repeats, a touch exasperated. A beat of silence passes, and a thought that makes her heart ache flits through her mind. “Do you doubt me?”

“Never,” Cullen says, without hesitation. Asha’s breath hitches in her throat. Cullen glances away for a moment, awkwardly, before he clears his throat and quietly admits, “Everything about that night was another one of the worst experiences of my life, I think.”

Asha does not want him to think that she pities him. Cullen, in many ways, is a proud man--a trait that has drawn her admiration more than once. So when she cautiously reaches out and lays a hand against his forearm--her palm covering the Templar insignia in a move that is only half deliberate--she watches him for any sign that he wants to recoil. His gaze flits down, just for a moment. But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t frown. He merely looks back to her with the same, tired eyes.

“I know that’s saying something,” she murmurs, thinking of Kirkwall, where hundreds died in the streets, and Kinloch before that, which he will not speak about. “And I’m sorry that I--”

“Don’t,” he bites out, hands clenching in his lap. He lets out a sharp breath, bewildered. “You--you stayed behind,” he murmurs hoarsely. “For all of us, you stayed behind. You agreed to die, for our sakes. I thought you _were_ dead; I saw the avalanche bury everything. I let it happen--and yet you are the one apologizing.”

“Because I regret what I must have put you all through, even if I cannot change it,” Asha says. “If you’re allowed to act like my wounds are your fault, Commander, then I am allowed to act like your grief was mine.”

Cullen nearly flinches, not sure whether the biting tone of her voice or the fact that she doesn’t use his name stings more. He quietly chastises himself for that; she is right. She is right, and he knows it, and yet still he cannot help but take her hand in his, watching the way that her eyes go wide when he leans towards her and vows, “I will _not_ allow what happened at Haven to happen to you again. You have my word.”

His gloved hand dwarfs her own, the leather a cool relief against her heated, sore flesh; Asha lets her eyes slide closed for the briefest moment, drinking in the sensation--very aware of the way that her stomach flutters. Her fingers only just barely begin to tighten around his when Bull’s voice comes again from the entrance.

“Boss,” he calls, and it’s impossible to tell who releases the other’s hand first; Asha feels her face flush, but they’re a perfectly respectable distance apart when the Qunari parts the entrance and glances inside. “Cullen’s man, here to report.”

Asha watches Cullen rise and go, and she is almost disappointed that their conversation is over--but he glances back at her just before he disappears and murmurs, “I will only be a moment.”

She nods, and he is gone. She hears his low voice just outside, brushing her hair back from her ears to listen better; he’s speaking with Captain Rylen, she thinks, judging by the unique Starkhaven brogue.

“We managed to recover some of the trunks left in the barracks,” she hears him say. “Got some extra arms and armor for our trouble. Other than that, there wasn’t much else we could find.” A beat passes, and then, “I had my men search near where the trebuchets were, like you suggested. But there was no sign of the Herald’s staff.”

Asha sits up a little straighter at that, eyes going wide. She hears a soft sigh come from Cullen, and then hears him murmur, “I suppose it was a bit much to hope for… But thank you, Rylen. The supplies you and your men recovered are much needed.”

“Of course,” Rylen says. “Glad to see the Herald is doing well, at the very least.”

“As are we all. Carry on.”

Asha presses a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a smile--but she is beaming like a fool when Cullen enters the tent once more. He blinks at her, his own mouth pulling up into that familiar half-smile that sends a gentle thrill rolling through her. “You asked them to search for my staff?”

Cullen looks surprised for a moment--and then his gaze falls to her ears. “Oh,” he says, simply.

Asha’s grin is positively radiant, her eyes sparkling. “Thank you,” she says softly.

Cullen gives her a fond look, though his voice is a little wry when he responds, “I might accept your thanks if my men had actually managed to find it. I had hoped… Well. I am sorry that we weren’t able to recover it.”

“It’s alright,” Asha lies; it doesn’t feel alright, but the loss is permanent and there is nothing anybody can do about it. And yet, he had tried for her. And so she steadies herself, keeps smiling. “That you even thought to try..." Her pulse, she realizes, is racing. “Ma melava halani, Cullen,” she murmurs, voice thick and sweet.

Cullen very nearly blushes, bringing a cool hand to the back of his neck, trying to drag his mind away from lingering on the way she had said that. He clears his throat lightly, a brow quirking. “Is there more than one way to say thank you in Elvhen?” he asks, knowing he’s heard her say it before--and it hadn’t sounded a thing like that.

The bashful note in his voice is nothing short of endearing to her, prompting her to tease him with a coy reply. “There is.”

Cullen does not linger long with her after that; it grows late, and he excuses himself from her tent, saying that she should rest before their preparations to head for the fortress in these mountains begins. Asha agrees, quietly relieved that he is no longer questioning her capabilities nor her determination. But she stops him just before he can go, calling his name.

“My lady?” he murmurs.

Asha finds herself taken aback at the way his quiet, pleasant formality makes heat rise in her cheeks. She ducks her head, magelights dimming just a bit. A moment of silence passes before she asks, carefully, “Are you sleeping, Cullen?”

Pain--and something else that she doesn’t catch before it’s gone--flashes in his eyes. “You have many things more worthy of your concern than my health, Asha,” he says, as lightly as he can. With a hint of irony, he bids her to sleep well--and then he is gone.

Asha sits there in the silence for a few moments, idly rubbing her fingers together, recalling the way that it had felt when he’d taken her hand. The sound of his voice when he had, almost desperately, promised her that he would never again allow her to go through what she had at Haven. Her breath catches in her throat, and Asha gently lays her head down upon her cot, stars in her eyes as the magelights wink out.

There are indeed many things--and many people--worthy of her concern. Cullen is unquestionably one of them.

 

XXX

 

When the last remnants of their camp are packed away, carried on the backs of the pack animals and mounts they had managed to save, dawn’s light has yet to rise over the mountains as the Inquisition sets out for the fortress. Asha walks in a new set of borrowed robes, loose around her small frame--it is cold, but she is grateful that there is no painful press on the still-healing wound on her chest.

But between that and the borrowed staff that she relies on to support her steps, Asha doesn’t imagine that she is the most inspiring figure. Haphazard, perhaps.

“Be their guide,” Solas had advised her.

It is far easier said than done, when she feels the weight of all their eyes against her back. Upon her shoulders. When the journey starts, Asha grips her borrowed staff with an almost bruising intensity, welcoming the pain that sears through her palms because it is something else she might focus on. She leads their pace--as painful as it is to stride evenly through untrodden terrain. She leads them into the unknown, a single flame at the tip of her staff to light the way--at least until day breaks, though that looks to be a while off.

Asha turns when soft-footed steps sound in the snow beside her; she glances over and offers a nod to Mother Giselle, who watches her with kind--and observant--eyes. “How are you faring, Herald?” she asks, quiet enough that Cassandra and the advisors behind her will not hear.

Asha doesn’t know why this is the moment that it happens, but something in her chest aches, and then cracks, falling away to expose her rawest emotions. Perhaps it is the stillness of the mountain--no wind nor wolves howling in their ears--or perhaps it is just that Mother Giselle has never seemed to expect anything from her.

“I am worried,” is what Asha finally says, so soft she might not have spoken at all.

Mother Giselle has enough awareness of the situation that she does not pull ahead of Asha, nor does she attempt to guide her--she merely places a comforting hand upon her back, just for a moment. “I am sure many others share your feelings,” she says. “If you would speak of why, I am happy to listen.”

Asha’s smile is tight, and it doesn’t reach her eyes. “We are so close to reaching whatever the next step of the Inquisition is,” she says, choosing her words carefully. She would not have any of her people assuming that she doubts in where she has chosen to be. “And I think I am feeling a little lost, perhaps.” She inhales deeply, bracingly, and glances at her. “Sometimes, I would feel this way back home, with my clan. I would think about… my place, and what my people expected of me. What they hoped of me. And I wonder what it would mean, if I wasn’t what they needed.”

“Do you truly believe you are not needed here?” Mother Giselle asks,

“No,” Asha says, and she means it. “But I think, sometimes, that I could have been anyone.” She feels the presence of the Anchor on her palm, its energy vibrating gently below the surface of her skin. “And I also think that, sometimes, it doesn’t matter who I am. I am a Dalish elf. I am a mage. I am not, and never will be, an Andrastian following the Chant of Light. I am nothing the Chantry wants, and I would never wish to be otherwise. And people… choose not to see that.” A beat passes, and then she adds, sheepishly, “Forgive me if I sound cold.”

“You do not,” Mother Giselle says, and her tone is understanding and thoughtful in equal measure. They walk in silence for a while; high above, the sky begins to lighten the slightest amount, from pitch black to the deepest blue hues. “Does it bother you very much?”

Asha frowns. “Not as much as it used to, perhaps. I might be numbed to it. I am not a stranger to human faith, and my habits are the same as anyone else’s, even though we worship differently. We cling to what we know to explain what we don’t. Even though I want... little to do with the Chantry, I don’t have the luxury of distancing myself.” Her voice is almost longing when she sighs, “It’s impossible.”

“Who says it is so?”

Asha gives her a rueful smile. “Everybody who calls me the Herald of Andraste.” She hesitates for a moment before adding, “If it were something else… Maybe the Herald of the Inquisition, if people had to call me anything. But Andraste?” A chill wind sweeps through just then, raising gooseflesh on her arms. Asha hopes for the day’s warmth. “I can never be happy with that. The Andraste that people invoke is the bride of your Maker, dying on the pyre. It is not the woman who fought in a war to make men free, and who called an elf brother.”

“Too many have forgotten that they are indeed the same woman,” Mother Giselle agrees, her hands folded before her. “But you may yet remind them. The path before the Inquisition is a long one, full of uncertainty. And though you must endure a great many things… You stand before them now, a symbol of hope. Someone to rally behind.”

“Am I?” Asha breathes, her chest tight. She is struck by how desperately she wants to believe that. “Am _I_ that symbol?” she asks, her double meaning clear enough--she wonders if the people are behind who she truly is, rather than what they want her to be.

Mother Giselle smiles. “There is a Chantry hymn that I am reminded of, in this moment.” She pauses, and then asks, “Is song very important to the Dalish--your beliefs, your rituals?”

Asha appreciates the question; it makes her smile as well, though her gaze is melancholy as she listens to the snow crunch beneath her aching feet and thinks of the burial hymn she had sung for herself--when she had been so certain that she was going to die.

“It is. My people have a song,” she says, softly. “We sing it to those who pass into uthenera--the long sleep. I imagine it’s a bit different from your Chantry hymns There’s a verse that--that talks about the life that goes on, after. That something grows over nothingness. It’s… joy and hope, and a promise, all in one.”

She blinks, realizes when she touches a hand to her cheek that she is crying. Asha takes a shuddering breath, her heart aching for home.

Mother Giselle speaks in hushed, respectful tones when she says, “It sounds beautiful. I would much like to hear it.”

Asha lets out a breathless little laugh, swiping at her eyes. “Only if you sing your hymn first,” she quips. She blinks, a startled breath catching in her throat when Mother Giselle lifts her face to the heavens and begins to do just that.

For all that Asha disdains about the Chantry--their exclusive, at times aggressive piety, and their casual acceptance that lingering punishment for apostasy is normal and necessary--this song that she has never heard before reminds her of none of that. Her ears twitch, picking up the melody with ease as Mother Giselle’s voice carries behind them on the wind, reaching the many who follow.

This too is a song of hope. And Asha finds herself almost taken by it, especially when she hears the clear, ringing voice of Leliana--hardened, questioning Leliana--join in first. And then, more voices rise up on the trail, soft but full of feeling, until many are singing. United.

Asha’s heart skips, tripping over its own rapid beat when her ears catch the honeyed, almost desperate tones of Cullen’s voice, behind her. She can feel his eyes on her back. Her grip is steady on her staff as she walks on, legs stronger than they were the day before. Her heart swells, and she opens her mouth and begins to sing.

 

XXX

 

Cullen’s breath leaves him, the words fading from his lips when he hears her voice. It carries over them, rich and soulful and sinking tender hooks into his heart before he recognizes it--the Elvhen song from that night, when they’d left Asha in the chantry--fit to the tune of this hymn. He can hear other voices quieting, falling to awed silence as hers rises, echoing with Mother Giselle’s voice on the wind. It is achingly beautiful, in its most unexpected harmony.

Asha is beautiful, and he is utterly besotted. The realization is thunderous, a heavy pound between his ribs as he watches her small back, her unbound hair swaying as she walks. And then she turns, slightly, her stormy-eyed gaze peeking over her shoulder, falling on him for just a moment before she looks ahead once more.

 _‘Andraste preserve me,'_ he nearly thinks--but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to be preserved, doesn’t want to be saved from these feelings that he should _not_ be having--not for her--but. He’s caught them now. Or they’ve caught him, digging into the heart that is finally his own again, vulnerable to feelings that he hadn’t even thought himself still capable of having.

Cullen realizes, then, that he will have to tell her the truth. About him, about the lyrium. If she takes up the mantle of Inquisitor, she will command him. He will command _for_ her, an instrument of the indomitable will that had faced down a self-styled god and an archdemon and had spit in their faces, come back to them, _survived_.

The shadows of his past selves--the pious and the broken--remind him that he should be ashamed of the thrill that runs through him at the thought, seizing him, a sharp grip on his foolish heart.

He isn’t.

 

XXX

 

_Keeper Deshanna,_

_I am alive. It feels almost silly to say--so blunt. But when I think of what happened that night at Haven, I find that my words leave me._

_I am alive._

_You must know already, that the Breach is sealed. I do not know what you might have heard about what happened after that. This mark is still on my hand. It has a name, now--the Anchor. And we now know what it is from, though I still do not remember how it came to be on my hand. The one who created it is named Corypheus. He is a Blighted creature--a Tevinter magister who assaulted the heavens, he claims. Like the Andrastians’ Chant says. He has tamed a dragon that looks like an archdemon._

_My beliefs are not shaken by this. This world is full of many people who believe many things. What shakes me is what this has meant for the Inquisition. And because it has changed the Inquisition--what they must focus on--it has changed me. I would stay with them, Keeper. This time, of my own choice. That night, I would have given my life for them. I nearly did--I held the attention of those beasts while everybody escaped. I readied myself to walk beside Falon’Din into the Beyond--and the Beyond did not take me._

_I would make the same choice again if I needed to. I think that they are my people as well, Keeper. I may not lead them the way that I would have led the clan, but they are a part of my life, now. And as long as Corypheus is still alive, the Inquisition is needed. As long as the Inquisition is needed, I must stay with them. Not as their Herald of Andraste--and not as the First of our clan. Only as myself. As Asha’revas, a proud Dalish elf who wants peace in the world for the sake of our people. For all people. Nothing more. This is what I believe._

_Forgive me, Keeper. I meant for this letter to be a happy one to you. But this is the path that the Creators would have me walk, I know it. And I carry Clan Lavellan with me wherever I go; know that._

_I hope I will hear from you, after this. Ir abelas._

_\-- Asha_

 

XXX

 

Skyhold is a wonder beyond anything Asha had imagined. From the moment she had passed through the gates, into the ruins of a long-since abandoned courtyard, she’d felt old magic vibrate through her body, rushing in her blood. Protective and impossibly strong, even after the fortress had spent so long empty and crumbling.

Unfortunately, even after more than a week of carefully clearing debris--enough, at least, that the Inquisition can make camp in the courtyard as opposed to the valley--much of it is still uninhabitable. Asha can hardly count the amount of times she’s opened a door to a room and found nothing but rubble behind it, or bricks sealing it from being accessed.

Cassandra had suggested that it might be best for her to take one of the few available rooms that they’d been able to access for her own personal quarters, Asha had politely refused. She is more than happy in a private tent near the healers. Her strength hasn’t yet returned enough to help with construction--though she no longer needs to wear dressings on her chest--and the inner circle might have a fit if she tried anyway.

“It would be terribly ironic,” she says, once, when they convene around the work desk Cullen has set up in the courtyard. “Bested by a bit of falling rubble, but not an avalanche.” She receives many withered looks in return, which all do nothing but make her smile.

In any case, she spends her days helping the people who had nursed her back to relatively good health--and doing the same for those who hadn’t been as lucky as she had. It is in the healers’ tent that Cassandra finds her early one morning, sitting at a table and carefully chopping up spindleweed. “Is there something you need?” she asks, wiping her hands on a spare cloth.

Cassandra stands at attention. “The advisors wish to see you,” she says. “In the undercroft.”

Asha blinks, grabbing ahold of her plain staff and using it to push herself to her feet. “Is everything alright?” she asks, catching the oddly formal tone in the other woman’s voice.

Cassandra smiles at her, then, and the sight reassures her. “Everything is fine, Herald.” A beat passes. “There is something that we would like your opinion on.”

Asha wants to question her--Cassandra is usually so straightforward that the vague answers almost worry her. But if it was a negative matter, Asha knows she would be honest. She gestures for Cassandra to lead the way, following behind at her own, slow pace. As they walk through the courtyard, Asha can’t help but smile at the buzz of activity that has filled the air. “Every day, it seems like there are more people here,” she remarks.

“There are,” Cassandra says, taking care not to walk too quickly for Asha’s sake. “Word has spread that the Inquisition is here, and Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage. People are coming from every settlement in the region.”

For a moment, Asha’s heart feels impossibly light. “That’s good,” she breathes, following Cassandra into what was once a throne room--now partially cluttered with debris from a half-collapsed ceiling. “That people still believe in the Inquisition.”

“It is,” Cassandra agrees. “But it also means that if word has reached them, then it has also reached Corypheus. We will have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here… but this threat is far beyond the war we anticipated.” She pauses then, a hand on the door to the undercroft. “But before we discuss this, there is something else we wished to speak to you about.”

The undercroft is still unfinished, only the basics that Harritt needs to craft arms and armor set up about the massive, frigid space. Asha pauses in the entrance when the advisors--all of them are indeed gathered, waiting--turn to look at her. In the middle of them, Harritt is holding a small chest in his arms, his brow beaded with sweat. He looks nervous.

“Is everything alright?” Asha asks, carefully beginning to make her way down the steps to where they stand. But then, Cullen is standing at the bottom, offering his hand to her. Asha bites back a smile, pleased but not wanting to betray her feelings. All eyes are on them. She slips her hand into his, accepting the aid with a nod. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

“Of course,” is his low reply. He waits until she has both feet firmly on the ground before he releases her, but he remains at her back with Cassandra as she moves to stand before the rest of them.

“You wanted to speak to me about something?” Asha asks, wondering what it is they might’ve discussed that they were only now beginning to involve her in. Every council they’d had, she’d been a part of.

Leliana smiles at her and says, “My agents have been in contact with your clan. Thanks to our alliance, your people have been kind enough to send us something that we were in need of.” She nods to Harritt, who steps forward and holds the chest out to Asha. “Take a look.”

Asha reaches out and opens the latch; it clicks heavily, and she slowly raises the lid to peek inside. Her eyes go impossibly wide, a shocked gust of breath leaving her. Her hands tremble as she reaches in and removes the contents.

It is her armor. Her Keeper’s robe, made new. She gasps as she runs her fingers over the surface--there is something different, something _more_ , magic threaded through the cloth of the lilac wool and the strong, supple leather. “This…” she starts, voice trailing into silence as she holds them before her; they are beautiful, regal and fitting of a clan leader. Her vision blurs, and when she blinks, fat tears are rolling down her cheeks. “This is--”

“Enchanted fabrics,” Leliana says, her eyes sparkling. “Elven magic, as I understand it, performed by your Keeper. For you.”

“Yes,” Asha chokes, gathering the robes to her. “How did you--”

“The fabrics were from your clan,” Josephine says, hands clasped together in delight. “The chains--silverite, from a merchant whose favor I curried.”

“Your people sent the schematics,” Harritt says then, snapping the chest shut. He looks a bit uncomfortable at the sight of Asha’s tears, but his voice is a bit gentler when he adds, “Fine work, that is. Never been able to make anything like that before. Really hope I didn’t muck it up.”

“You didn’t,” she breathes, hardly daring to believe that this is happening. She blinks, glances at Leliana. “They just sent you the schematics?” she asks. Knowledge is sacred to the Dalish; for her Keeper to readily give away the information on how to make the most important piece of armor that a member of the clan can possess is unheard of, even for her own clan.

“They understood why we needed them,” Leliana says, a secretive smile playing about the corners of her lips. “We can discuss this more in the courtyard--for now, try them on. I imagine they will fit you quite well.”

After that, Asha is left alone to dress. Her heart is positively racing as she does, slowly, so as not to agitate her healing injuries. Her hands and shoulder are healed, but the deep wound in her chest has only just begun to scar, and it still sends pain radiating through her when she is not careful with her actions. But that suits her just fine, because the act of armoring herself in these new robes is almost a ritual to her.

Every piece that touches her skin makes her feel whole again, reverent at the sensation of it. Asha can’t help but run her hands down her front when she is done, feeling the enchanted cloth spilling down the length of her body, the magic humming under her touch. She swallows hard past the lump in her throat and takes a moment to compose herself before she leaves, meeting Cassandra once again in the throne room.

“I must say,” Cassandra says, hands folded behind her back as she casts an admiring look at her. “I understand what allowed you to stand against Corypheus as you did. What drew him to you.”

Asha blinks, pausing at her tone. She smiles, bemused, and holds up her marked palm. “I think _this_ deserves the credit for that,” she quips. Her voice turns a touch rueful when she adds, “And now that it’s useless to him, the only thing that draws him to me is his desire to see me dead.”

“The Anchor has power,” Cassandra agrees, motioning for Asha to follow her to the entrance. Skyhold’s massive doors are thrown open, bright light spilling across the stone floors. Asha can hear the din of all the people that have gathered in the courtyard in the time that they have been there. “But you must know that it is not why you are still standing here.”

Asha lets out a small huff of laughter at that. “I suppose,” she says, thinking of the luck that had allowed her to escape from Haven alive. Luck, or perhaps Mythal’s divine protection--though she doesn’t say that aloud.

“Your decisions let us heal the sky,” Cassandra continues as they walk out and down the first set of steps; Asha catches sight of Leliana standing on the landing below, her back to them. “Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are that creature’s rival because of what _you_ did. And we know it. All of us.”

Asha smiles then, opening her mouth to tease Cassandra about how complimentary she is being--but Leliana turns, then, another familiar object laid across her extended hands as she presents it, and all words fail her.

It is her staff. Or rather, it is her staff remade. The grip is the same--still the pale, beautiful color of Ironbark, with intricate branches twining up the surface. But the branches, she realizes, are inlaid metals of green and gold, shimmering in the sun. And the ornate, fierce dragon’s head carved at the top is made of the same, its mouth open and wicked fangs bared. Asha is so stunned at the sight that she very nearly misses Cassandra’s next words.

“The Inquisition requires a leader,” she says softly. “The one who has _already_ been leading it. You.”

Asha draws a sharp breath, looking out to the courtyard below. Her people are gathered there, she realizes. All of them, a sea of faces looking at her. Looking up to her, their eyes radiant with hope so bright that it makes her ache. At the front, Cullen and Josephine are watching her as well, smiling. Waiting for her. They have _been_ waiting for her.

“I’m…” she begins, voice nothing more than a whisper. She realizes now why they had waited, wanting her to stand before the people looking every bit the leader that she had been raised to be. The thought steals her breath, nearly makes her head spin. They had waited for _her_ \--Asha’revas, a Dalish elf and proud First of Clan Lavellan, in Keeper’s robes and with a Keeper’s staff. She looks back to Cassandra then, incredulous. “Are you sure you understand what you’re doing?” she asks, not unkindly. “You’re offering this to a Dalish elf. A mage elf, at that.”

“I would be terrified handing this power to anyone,” Cassandra admits. She pauses, just for a moment, thinking over her words. “At some point, power becomes its own master. We cast aside our own ideals for expedience and tell ourselves it was necessary, for the people.” Cassandra’s tone is nothing short of admiring when she continues, “But you do not waver in what you believe, even when you find yourself surrounded by many who do not share those beliefs. You do not cast aside your true self in favor of what others say you are meant to be. That in itself is a remarkable thing. The person you are, even more so.”

“You believe that?” Asha whispers, eyes shining. She looks to Leliana. “All of you?”

“The proof is before you,” Leliana murmurs, nodding to the staff she still offers.

“The people will follow you,” Cassandra assures her. “Who you are is, to many, a sign of how far you have risen. To those who follow the Chant, how it must have been by Andraste’s hand. But what it means to you--how you lead us… That is for you alone to determine.”

At that, Cassandra holds out her hand for the borrowed staff that Asha has relied on ever since she had woken up. For the briefest moment, a shock of fear runs through her--fear that they don’t truly understand what they are doing, naming her Inquisitor. Fear, even, that she might hurt their cause if she were to accept.

But then her gaze falls on the courtyard once more, and nothing has changed. They are all still watching her, waiting in devoted silence. Slowly, Asha hands Cassandra her plain staff; she takes it with a nod, her gaze bright. Asha can’t help but smile, stunned.

The new staff shines in the light, its brilliance beckoning her to reach out her hand and grasp it, bringing it down to her side. It is sturdy, stronger than steel, and it would easily bear her weight wherever she walks. And more than that, it is powerful; deep within her, her magic responds, her blood singing as she flexes her fingers around the grip. They had crafted it for her. A Keeper’s staff, for her.

A leader. And when Asha speaks, it is to her people. “We have an enemy,” she says, her voice rising to reach everyone standing below. “And to face that enemy, we must stand together. We must do what is _right_. We must stand for everybody--elf and human, Qunari and dwarf.” She looks back to Cassandra and declares, “The Inquisition will fight for all of us.”

Cassandra’s smile is almost serene--as if she had known Asha would say this. “Wherever you lead us,” she agrees, walking to the edge to look down at the crowd that is bearing witness to this moment. “Have our people been told?” she calls.

Josephine is beaming. “They have!” she cries. “And soon, the world!”

“Commander!” Cassandra shouts, voice rising in fervor. “Will they follow?”

Asha watches, her heart impossibly full, overwhelming her with the force of sudden, sheer _joy_ as Cullen turns to the people, hailing them. “Inquisition! Will you follow?” A cry rises up, the people shouting their approval. “Will you fight?” Another cry then, louder; Asha grips her staff so tightly that her fingers shake. “Will we triumph?”

At that, the loudest roar rings out over the courtyard, echoing even in the valley that they had all walked through not long ago, weary and worn. But the Inquisition is no such thing, now--it is made whole again, revitalized by this.

By her.

Asha feels heat bloom within her when Cullen turns, his gaze burning in its intensity as he looks up at her. “Your leader!” he calls, unsheathing his sword and presenting it to her--swearing fealty to her, unhesitant, without any doubt. Only devotion. “Your Herald! _Your Inquisitor!_ ”

Asha must swear her loyalty to them in turn. She would never ask of her people anything that she is unwilling to give; though her arm throbs with the motion, she raises her staff, whirling it once, calling forth everything she has within her--all of her determination, all of her desire to do right, all of her fire, her flame that has been burning within since Haven. The flame that had guided her. She raises her staff high, and fire bursts from the head--it grows, rises, engulfs the sky as her magic surges within her and makes it take the shape of a great, burning dragon in flight.

The cheer that answers her display--her vow to them, to lead with all that she is--is nothing less than exultant.

 

XXX

 

_Inquisitor,_

_Tel’emas banal lasa ma abelas, da’len. I suspect you penned your last letter before your Inquisition told you. I have always known you would be a great leader. The clan is overjoyed; would that we could see you, in all your grace and wisdom. I have no doubt, though, that we will hear much of your great deeds._

_Mythal’enaste._

_\-- Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra's 'power becomes its own master' speech was indeed taken from its later point in the game, but trust me when I say it belongs here.
> 
> Up next: some honesty.
> 
> Elvhen translations as per FenxShiral's Project Elvhen:  
> "Ma melava halani" - An idiom meaning 'You have spent your time to help me.' Archaic and intimate, rarely spoken to those who are not very close friends, family, or lovers.  
> "Ir abelas." - I am sorry.  
> "Tel’emas banal lasa ma abelas." - You have nothing to be sorry for.


	11. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Asha’s surprise, her first test of true leadership doesn’t come from being faced with a difficult decision during a war council, nor does it come from dealing with foreign, skeptical nobles visiting the new seat of the Inquisition’s power. It comes when Asha sees Cassandra making a beeline for Varric across the courtyard, dread sinking deep in her stomach as she moves to follow them to the corner tower that they disappear into--Varric running, Cassandra chasing.
> 
> ‘Oh no.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me one hell of a time, but I think I'm satisfied. Maybe. Also, Banks mood music (oh my GOD, Banks mood music). This is an excellent thing.

_"Why're you so afraid?_  
_I can see you waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting..._  
_Withering away."_  
**\-- 'Better' by Banks**

* * *

 

To Asha’s surprise, her first test of true leadership doesn’t come from being faced with a difficult decision during a war council, nor does it come from dealing with foreign, skeptical nobles visiting the new seat of the Inquisition’s power. It comes when Asha sees Cassandra making a beeline for Varric across the courtyard, dread sinking deep in her stomach as she moves to follow them to the corner tower that they disappear into--Varric running, Cassandra chasing.

_‘Oh no.'_

It comes when she climbs the steps two at a time and is greeted with the sight of Cassandra, nearly unhinged, trying to smash Varric’s face in.

“You knew where Hawke was all along!” she sneers, her fists clenched in the front of his tunic--for one horrible moment, Asha thinks that Cassandra might actually pick him up and hurl him over the side of the bannister.

She moves forward, eyes wide as Varric--charming, easygoing Varric--shoves Cassandra away from him with a grunt. “You’re damned right I did!” he spits, and Asha’s heart sinks.

“You conniving little _shit_ ,” Cassandra snarls, and when she swings at him--a blow he is lucky enough to dodge--Asha finally darts between them, her hands coming out to separate them before one of them does something truly stupid, like killing the other.

“Enough,” she breathes, her heart hammering in her ribs. Asha had known that Cassandra had sought out Hawke before the Conclave had happened, but she is not prepared for the sheer betrayal in the Seeker’s eyes as she freezes and glares at her.

“You’re taking _his_ side?” she breathes, and Asha bristles, sparks snapping in her stormy eyes.

“I said _enough!_ ” she repeats, voice rising. Cassandra falters, taking a step away as Varric lets out a soft huff of relief at the intervention and moves to stand beside her. Asha’s gaze does not welcome him kindly--but her disappointment in the two of them turns to bitterness in the back of her throat when Cassandra speaks again.

“We needed someone to lead this Inquisition,” she says. Asha stiffens. “First, Leliana and I searched for Warden-Commander Mahariel, but she had vanished. Then we looked for Hawke, but she was gone, too.” Her fury is palpable when she turns her gaze on Varric, who still watches her with an equal measure of wariness and matching anger. “We thought it all connected--but no. It was just _you._ You kept her from us.”

“The Inquisition _has_ a leader!” Varric snaps, pointing to Asha. But she is not looking at him--in fact, she barely hears him speak for her over the sound of Cassandra’s words ringing in her ears. She had sounded so… disappointed.

Disappointed, at best. And the Seeker misses the hurt that shines in Asha’s eyes when she ignores Varric’s words and continues, almost desperately, “Hawke would have been at the Conclave! If anyone could have saved Most Holy--”

“You cannot change what has already happened, Cassandra,” Asha bites out; her words are ice and steel, neatly cutting through whatever else she might’ve said. Asha knows that she should be composed--that even now, months after, Cassandra is still hurt, still grieving, but she had thought--

She had thought that this woman, brash and hard and worthy of respect, was happy with her. With Asha. But now--

“I was protecting my friend,” Varric says.

“Varric is a liar, Inquisitor,” Cassandra says, turning to her. The use of her formal title feels like a slap in the face, now. “A snake. Even _after_ the Conclave, when we needed Hawke most, Varric kept her secret.”

“She’s with us now!” he protests when Asha doesn’t immediately respond. They are so absorbed in each other, that they miss her--her hardened expression, and the way that her hands tremble, balled into fists. “We’re on the same side.”

“We _all_ know whose side you’re on, Varric,” she hisses. “It will never be the Inquisition’s.”

“That’s unworthy of you,” Asha says, voice softer than a whisper, turning to face her--and it is then that Cassandra stills. It is then that her dark eyes widen, all of the fire taken from her blood as she realizes that Asha’s eyes are shining with the exact same look that she’d worn when she’d learned that Varric had lied to her all along. It is then that she realizes just how she must have sounded, saying that the one they'd needed the most after the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been destroyed had not been her.

The silence that follows is thunderous. Cassandra looks away from her, face fallen. Shamed. Varric is wise enough not to say anything, but that only lasts for just a moment. He can’t resist one final shot. “You know what I think?” he murmurs, heading for the stairs. “I think if Hawke had been at the temple, she’d be dead, too. And you people have done enough to her.”

“Varric,” Asha says when he moves to descend. He pauses for a moment, meaning to give her a comforting smile--the pain is rolling from her in waves--but his expression stills when he realizes that she is glaring at him. “You and I will have words later.”

He hesitates for a moment, but then nods, deferential. He knows better than to say anything else, now. Cassandra’s anger had been inevitable. But golden-hearted Asha’s anger was a thing that nobody earned easily. Or needlessly.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra begins softly--regretfully. But her words die in her throat when Asha looks at her, once, in a way that she hasn’t seen in many months.

Asha leaves without another word to her, heat pricking at the corners of her eyes and hurt sticking in her throat. She walks away feeling as though she has just had her first test--a test to see if she can truly unite people, inspiring them to put aside what differences they have in favor of fighting for their common cause. They are all on the same side, as Varric had said.

But her ideals feel like acid in her throat, and Asha feels as though she has failed already.

 

XXX

 

“Cassandra is sorry.”

Asha’s tired eyes slide shut for just a moment, and she glances up from her pot of embrium blooms, the soft scent of them wafting in the air between them. “Did she say that to you?” she asks, a quiet murmur that suggests she already knows the answer.

“No,” Cole says, ghost-pale eyes fixed firmly on her face as he fiddles with the wraps on his hands. “Blisters on small hands, she says it’s enough for today but it’s not, it’s not enough--Ellana made a flame twice as high, and it didn’t burn her--it’s not enough, Keeper, I am not enough.”

Asha’s heart clenches painfully, breath catching in her throat. Her fingers spasm, accidentally crushing petals between them. Her hands tremble when she sets the pot aside and then folds them neatly in her lap. “Did you say that to her?” she asks, half afraid of the answer.

A beat passes. “Yes.”

A sigh bursts from her, and Asha looks away for a long moment. Cole is trying to help--she knows this. She also knows that she cannot avoid Cassandra forever--that trying to avoid her at all, in fact, is a poor idea at best. Though doubt still sinks its claws into her heart, Asha rises quietly and leaves her tent, Cole following at her heels. She glances over her shoulder at him, offering him the faintest of smiles. “Thank you, Cole.”

“I helped?” he asks, softly.

“Yes,” Asha replies. Her smile grows, just a bit. “Can you ask me next time, before you go telling people my thoughts?”

Cole nods and leaves without another word. Asha watches the way that he moves across the courtyard--there is a lightness to his steps that even she can’t hope to match in grace or silence.

She finds Cassandra right where she’d left her. She leans over the edge of the wooden bannister, arms braced against it; her head turns at the sound of Asha’s footsteps and the quiet tap of her staff against the ground as she walks. The silence stretches between them, a great and gaping chasm. Asha waits, unsure if she can even bring herself to speak first.

And then Cassandra says, brokenly, “I believed him. He spun his story for me, and I swallowed it.” She turns, then, to look at Asha. Her jaw is clenched tight, a muscle jumping in her throat as she forces herself to continue. “If I’d just explained what was at stake… If I’d just made him _understand…_ ” She trails off, then, moving and sinking into a chair at the table before them. She doesn’t meet Asha’s eyes. “But I didn’t. I didn’t explain _why_ we needed Hawke.”

Asha forces herself to ignore the way that those words cut her deeply. Instead, she does what she must do as a leader--even if she isn’t the leader that Cassandra had really wanted. She moves forward, silently, and then sets her staff on the table. The dragon’s head glints in the light of day shining through the windows. Cassandra’s eyes are drawn to it--and then to Asha, widening in shock as she kneels before her and takes her hands.

“What if you had?” Asha asks. Her voice is toneless--no pain, and no judgement. Merely a question to consider. “Or what if you hadn’t believed him, and you’d tracked Hawke down?”

Cassandra’s brows furrow deeply, a grimace flitting across her face. “Honestly, Hawke might not have even agreed to become Inquisitor. She supported the mage rebellion, after all… She would not have trusted me for a second.” Her breath hitches in her throat, and she sounds so unlike herself--so unlike her brash, self-assured nature--when she confesses, “But this isn’t about Hawke. Or even Varric. Not truly.”

Suddenly, her hands are twisting, turning their palms up and catching Asha’s in a bone-crushing grip. “I should have been more careful,” she gasps, and the sound of her self-loathing brings the wet heat back to blur Asha’s vision. “I should have been smarter. And I should not have spoken as if… As if _you_ were a mistake.” Asha flinches at that, a tear escaping through her lashes and rolling down her scarred cheek. Cassandra watches it go, and her expression crumbles. “I don’t deserve to be here.”

Asha’s grip is far gentler now, as she slowly takes back control, threading her herb-stained fingers through Cassandra’s gloved ones and holding fast. Grounding herself as much as she tries to ground her. “You’re too hard on yourself,” she whispers.

Cassandra lets out a shocked breath, eyes wide. She shakes her head. “Not hard enough, I think,” she argues, voice quavering.

Asha’s gaze doesn’t waver. In Cassandra’s eyes, she finds her own doubts mirrored back at her. And the words that she would want said to her, in that moment, are passed between them. “You can’t believe that,” she says. “Because I don’t believe that.” And she means it. A beat passes, and she gently squeezes Cassandra’s hands. “And I’m the one in charge, here.”

Perhaps if they weren’t both so raw, that might’ve startled a laugh out of Cassandra. But all she does is look at their hands, breathing deeply. Seconds tick by in silence, and Cassandra’s voice is far steadier when she finally meets Asha’s eyes and speaks. “I want you to know, I have no regrets. Maybe… if we had found Hawke, or Mahariel, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you. But He did. And you have done more than any of us could.”

“Thank you,” Asha says, carefully rising to her feet once more. She takes her staff from the table and braces herself against it, legs trembling from the ache of kneeling on them for so long on an unforgiving floor. The hurt from before is not gone--a thing like that, for her, would take time. Her familiar self-doubts know her well, know how to wound her in ways that she can’t easily recover from. But Cassandra’s words help. They soothe.

Cassandra eyes the magnificent staff, and then her. She is out of her regal armor, clothed in nothing but casual leathers in warm colors, Dalish patterns embroidered down the front. She looks so ordinary--and yet, she doesn’t. Her slender ears peek out from the unbound waves of her dark hair, her intricate tattoos standing out in the light. The rich metals on her staff glimmer.

“You are not what I had pictured,” Cassandra admits after a long while. She watches Asha’s eyes for the flash of hurt--one that she might punish herself with later--but it never comes. “But if I’ve learned anything… it’s that I know less than nothing.”

Asha’s smile is painfully wry. “You and me both,” she says.

“I find that hard to believe,” Cassandra says, speaking of her. Her gaze falters then, just for a moment. “May I ask you something?”

Asha pauses, leaning her weight against her staff. “Of course,” she murmurs.

She hesitates for a moment. “Cole,” she begins, sounding as though it takes a great effort to refer to him by name instead of calling him a demon. “Cole mentioned…” She falters then, and Asha is torn between relief that she might drop it--and a harsh tightening in her gut if she asks what she thinks Cassandra will. And eventually, Cassandra manages it. “Who is Ellana?”

That Asha manages to keep her voice controlled when she responds is nothing short of a miracle. “She was the First of my clan.”

Cassandra blinks, confused. “I thought you were--”

“I am,” Asha says, her throat tightening. Lines of stress--of a burden--form at the corners of her reddened eyes. “She died, many years ago. We were young. I became First after.”

When Cassandra asks how, she almost immediately regrets it. Not because Asha glowers at her, angry that she would pry so deeply into a matter that she probably shouldn’t, even if they are friends--but rather, she regrets it because Asha looks so broken, in such a familiar way, when she answers.

“How does any mage in the wild die?” she asks, voice low. Still, somehow, controlled.

Cassandra bows her head, apologetic. But Asha threads her free arm through hers, reassuring her, and they walk together through the courtyard. When Asha’s gaze flicks--just for a moment--to the few Templars in their organization having a good-natured sparring match by the gates, Cassandra’s heart stutters with a shock as she realizes that the answer to her question had not been possession.

_“How does any mage in the wild die?”_

The midday sun glares harshly off of their armor, the Sword of Mercy shining.

 

XXX

 

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” Asha asks sardonically. Varric gives her a half-sour look over his shoulder, but Asha does not waver. She is exhausted--but this is only the beginning, and she would have this all settled now before they moved forward.

“I wasn’t trying to keep secrets,” Varric says after a long while, folding his arms. Despite his words, he doesn’t meet her eyes. “I told the Inquisition everything that seemed important at the time.”

“I believe that,” Asha replies smoothly. Her grip tightens on her staff for a moment, and her voice is a little sharper when she adds, “But that doesn’t mean I approve of you passing on information about us without our knowledge. Even Bull doesn’t do that.”

Varric’s good intentions shrivel to nothing but dust on the wind, at that. By the look on his face, she’s dealt him a finishing blow. Satisfied that he understands just why she isn’t happy with him, Asha waits for him to speak. He sighs, looking up at her. “I keep hoping that none of this is real,” he says, voice heavy. “Maybe it’s all some bullshit from the Fade, and it’ll just disappear.”

Asha’s gaze is sympathetic. “I know how that feels. But eventually, we all have to accept that it’s not.”

Varric gives her a tight smile. “When did that happen for you?”

A beat passes. “Haven,” is all she says.

Varric’s eyes slide shut, a groan escaping him. That, he realizes, was the true finishing blow. “I know,” he says, defeated and apologetic. “I need to do better.”

“You do,” Asha agrees, her voice as neutral as she can make it. But her smile is light when she cocks her head and watches him. “But don’t forget about what good you’ve already done. If we didn’t need you, you would not be here. And if you didn’t want to be here, I suspect nothing and no one could stop you from leaving and taking Hawke with you.”

“Thanks,” he says, feeling like he doesn’t truly deserve her words--but he is grateful for them anyway. “For that. And for not letting Cassandra beat me to death.”

“Well, you’re surprisingly quick on your feet,” Asha remarks, earning a snort. She lets out a soft huff of laughter, shaking her head. “When things calm down, I hope the two of you will talk to each other. Whatever differences you have need to be put aside, for the sake of everything. We are all part of the Inquisition--so we should all be on speaking terms, at least.”

Varric eyes her, amused. “You sound like you’ve been spending too much time with Curly.”

To Asha’s credit, her expression doesn’t change. But her cheeks darken, and Varric realizes that he’s missed a prime opportunity to wheedle some _very_ interesting information out of her by way of his own poor judgment calls. He bites his tongue, filing this away to be revisited later.

Whatever Asha might’ve said in response, though, is lost when a scout approaches. He stands at attention behind her, clearing his throat. “Inquisitor,” he murmurs, saluting when she turns to him; Asha struggles to keep her expression serene, though she doubt she’ll ever get used to that. “The commander wishes to speak to you in his office.”

Asha’s expression falters, then. “What about?” she asks, wondering why he wouldn’t simply come and seek her out.

“He didn’t say,” the scout replies. “He only asked that you come by as soon as you can.”

“Alright,” Asha says, and then he is gone. She glances sidelong at Varric, who is watching her with interest. She cocks a brow. “Yes?”

Varric grins. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Keep it that way,” she replies, without any real heat behind the words. The sound of Varric’s laughter follows her out the door.

With much of the rubble cleared and scaffolding erected in the courtyard to support construction, Cullen has finally been able to make an office above Skyhold’s gatehouse. Asha isn’t surprised by his choice of location--the view from that tower is one that looks out for miles into the valley. A perfect vantage point to see whoever--or whatever--would approach. She, however, has yet to see it. Her duties have kept her busy elsewhere.

But whatever lightness might’ve warmed her from within as she made the long climb up to the battlements, it vanishes when she pushes through the open door to his office and sees him bent over his desk, staring solemnly into a little kit upon the polished surface. He glances up at her arrival--and his eyes are shadowed and lined with stress. “Inquisitor,” he greets her.

Somehow, that formality only makes her more uneasy. Her fingers flex gently around the grip of her staff, the cool metal pressing marks into her skin. “You wanted to see me?” she murmurs, coming to stand before the desk.

He swallows hard. “As leader of the Inquisition, you…” His voice trails off into silence as he looks away from her. He pushes himself away from the desk, a soft huff of exertion escaping him. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Asha tries to ignore the way that something heavy sinks in the pit of her gut. “I’m listening,” is all she manages, wondering when the last time he had slept was. And then, she watches his hands rest carefully on the pommel of his sword. His fingers are shaking.

“Lyrium grants Templars our abilities, but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer… Some go mad, others die,” Cullen says. His voice is matter-of-fact, but there is something behind the thin veneer of nonchalance--something that he still seems to hesitate in letting her see.

Asha frowns, taking a step towards him and glancing down at the kit. She can see it clearly, now--tools and a philter, nestled in velvet beneath the carved image of Andraste. She realizes that she is looking at his own personal lyrium kit; her gaze flies to his face. “Is there something wrong with our supply?” she asks.

Cullen blinks. “No,” he murmurs after a long moment. “No, it’s…” He clears his throat then. “You asked me once… Back in Haven. What had me losing sleep.”

Realization ripples through her--even now, she remembers that conversation. In fact, she remembers far too many of their conversations. Asha takes another step forward, so close that her hips brush the front of the desk. So close that she could reach out and touch the kit. But not him. He stands back, distanced in more ways than one. “Is it another time already?” she murmurs, hoping he might remember too.

He does. “I no longer take lyrium,” he says solemnly. He forces himself to meet her eyes. “I stopped when I joined the Inquisition. It’s been months now.”

A pregnant pause stretches between them, and Asha grips her staff as firmly as he grips the pommel of his sword. She realizes, belatedly, that a great many things make sense, now. She knows things--knows what happens to mages when they pour potion after potion of liquid lyrium down their throat to augment their power, knows what happens when they run out of potions. When they take too much and stop too quick. Her Keeper had told her--warned her against the dangers of extending herself beyond what she was capable of.

She is ashamed to realize that she had never, not until this very moment, thought of how it must have been for the Templars. She’d never cared.

“Why?” is all she asks, voice tight. Cullen winces, and she hopes that he doesn’t mistake her concern for disapproval.

“After what happened in Kirkwall,” he begins, looking away from her, “I couldn’t. I will not be bound to the Order, or to that life any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it.” He draws a deep breath then, attempting to patch together some semblance of professionalism that had long gone. She is the Inquisitor--and he, her commander. He would not have her doubt him. “I would not put the Inquisition at risk,” he says. “I have asked Cassandra to watch me.”

“To watch you?” Asha murmurs, eyes going wide.

“If my ability to lead is compromised, she will relieve me from duty,” he says, the words heavy. “The Inquisition’s army must always take priority. If that means anything should happen, and I am not fit to command it, I will defer to Cassandra’s judgment.”

The silence that follows that is thicker, hanging over them like a fog. Asha swallows hard, her gaze on Cullen. She sees the way that his eyes flick, just for a moment, to the lyrium kit before him. The tremor that runs through his hands when he does is noticeable.

 _“You have not known me for very long, Lady Lavellan.”_ He’d said those words to her, once. Then, she’d felt that he was referring to the things that she hadn’t known about his past--when he was a Templar. The things he had done that would make him want something like this--truly distancing himself from the Order by doing the one thing that a man who’d spent years of his life regularly taking lyrium, depending on it, would never think to do. Not without enough cause.

Asha wonders at the cause. Despite what he’d said, she knows it’s more than Kirkwall. But she won’t pry about that. Instead, she moves around the desk, her staff tapping lightly against the stone floor as she walks. She moves close, so much so that she needs to crane her neck to meet Cullen’s eyes. He towers over her--but there is a vulnerability to him. A weight to him that drags him down--or tries to, anyway.

“Are you in pain?” she asks.

The achingly gentle tone makes him feel unworthy. “I can endure it,” he says firmly.

Her gaze is knowing. “That isn’t what I asked you,” she murmurs.

Cullen hesitates for only a moment. But she easily plucks apart walls he thought he had shored up, as though they were only paper and not stone. He wonders, for a moment, if he really is so weak--or if he really is that lost, when it comes to her. Oh, he knows the answer.

“I am,” he says to her.

Perhaps she oversteps, but Asha lifts a hand from her staff and presses her palm to his forehead. He flinches at the touch. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“I--”

“You’re cold,” she says, drawing back; he very nearly chases her touch. Her gaze trails over his body, scrutinizing. “Even under all that armor.” She meets his eyes once more and asks, “Do you see the healers?”

He is most reluctant to answer, knowing what will happen when he does. But it is Asha speaking to him, and he is duty bound to submit to her. And more than that, he wants to. “No.”

“Cullen,” she gasps, drawing back in alarm. “Never?”

For a moment, he wonders how he might explain to her that he doesn’t deserve even the slightest relief without having to explain _why_ he doesn’t deserve it. But before he can find an answer, her hand lifts once more--and then it stops, just short of touching him.

“May I?” she asks.

Cullen blinks, and then he hears the hum of magic; the air in front of her hand ripples gently before soft light glows at her fingertips. “I--” he starts, and then his mouth shuts, teeth clicking together with the force of it. He doesn’t know. But then Asha moves to pull away, and before he can stop himself, his hand is on her wrist. She freezes, and he releases her like he’s been burned. “Forgive me,” he breathes shakily.

“For what?” she whispers, as though he’s said something ridiculous. At that, he closes his eyes and tells himself that he doesn’t deserve this moment. “Tell me when,” she says, and then a soft, careful touch is at his temple. The hum fades--and beneath that, the thin, high warbling that has called him for months, emanating from his desk now, falls to blissful silence. The noise that he makes at that is embarrassing, but he can hardly bring himself to care, caught between the familiar apprehension that has plagued him for a decade, and the sheer _relief_ that courses through him. She is so warm.

Asha watches him carefully in the silence that follows, sharp gaze catching the way that his throat bobs in a hard swallow. The shadows beneath his eyes have gotten darker lately, somehow. There is only so long he can go without decent sleep--she knows it, because dreams of Haven have caught up with her at last, affecting her rest. He has been restless for far longer, it seems.

But he is not her. Cullen occupies himself with things that aren’t gentle--reports spilling over the sides of his desk, patrols through the battlements, combat drills, and she wonders exactly how many times he’s pulled his lyrium kit out just to look at it. And he calls it enduring.

Asha would call it something else. And she might be right, but if she can help at all, it isn’t with judgment. Eventually, Cullen opens his eyes. They are softer now, honey-gold in what light comes through the windows. They are very close, she realizes, pulling her touch away from him at last. The hum of magic dissipates, and there is nothing left but the sound of their own breathing.

“Better?” she asks.

“Much,” Cullen murmurs. His voice is rough.

Asha steps back, then, both hands curled around her staff once again. “Thank you for telling me about this,” she says, not looking at the lyrium kit. Only at him. “For what it’s worth, I respect what you are doing.”

“It’s worth a great deal,” he replies, before he can stop himself. But it earns him a tender smile that makes his chest ache. When she leaves, he turns to his desk and stares down at the figure of Andraste carved in the kit. She stands vigilant in the image, hands around a sword and eyes pale and flat. A reminder to Templars that in her name, they should endure. As she had done, they should endure.

Cullen snaps it shut and brushes it aside with little care. Perhaps if the figure had gentler, duskier eyes--like the ones his mind so often lingers on--he might’ve been inclined to stay devoted. He still believes, of course. But the naive reverence with which he’d worshipped once is a decade gone. He is not that boy any longer.

Later that evening, a runner stops by his office and deposits two sizeable, sealed jars on his desk. He can hear something sloshing inside, and he gives the runner a questioning look as he reaches for one.

“From the Inquisitor,” they say, just as he opens one and lets the sharp, cool scent of royal elfroot reach him.

Cullen’s eyes slide shut, the smell of the herbal infusion clearing his throbbing head. A faint smile touches the corner of his lips. Yes, perhaps if the figure carved in his kit had gentler eyes and herb-stained hands, he might’ve been inclined to stay wholly devoted. As it is, another woman has won that faith already--and more and more, with every passing day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now is probably a good time to mention that worship kinks are my thing. And any level of blasphemy as a result of a worship kink is just........ I'm burning.
> 
> Up next: getting closer.


	12. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No simple bandits would attack a Dalish camp with such force,” he says quietly. “My troops can give your clan all the support they need.”
> 
> “Enough to kill every single bandit in that valley?” Asha asks, eyes flashing. Her tone is downright dangerous.
> 
> Cullen nods, his hands reaching for the roster of his troops to find the best of his men that he can send just as Asha’s hand closes around the little metal marker that symbolizes his forces. She slams it down over Wycome, hard enough that all the others dotting the map wobble from the force.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally the most self-indulgent, semi-edited garbage which I love.

_"I got this need for you,_  
_forming in my beating heart."_  
**\-- 'Warm Water' by Banks**

* * *

 

Asha watches him, now, more keenly than she had before. While she tends to her duties at Skyhold, her gaze--and her thoughts, if she’s being honest with herself--follows him wherever she finds him. In the courtyard, running through combat drills on the training grounds with some of his men, she’ll follow his movements, searching for strain or fatigue. As he leaves the quartermaster’s tower, a sheaf of requisitions that need approval in hand, she’ll watch those hands and see if they shake that day or not. Sometimes she’ll catch sight of him leaving his office to walk the battlements, the sight of his fur pauldrons and surcoat standing out vividly as he moves through the pale stone.

She watches Cullen, then, simply because she likes to. And she is not certain what she should do--if she should do anything at all--with that realization.

Between herself, the scout that she now knows Cassandra is sending regularly to check on him, and whoever Leliana has watching--because Sister Nightingale is always watching--Asha is certain that he must be fed up with the attention. He isn’t the sort of man who would enjoy being fussed over, all hard lines, rigid shoulders, and proud stance.

Which begs the question--why had he let her do it that day?

Asha rolls her eyes at herself before she drops her gaze to stare at the plush carpeting beneath her feet as Vivienne, Josephine, and Vivienne’s seamstress all steadily circle her, scrutinizing. Now is not the time to be thinking of this, she knows.

“Even the empress herself would gnash her teeth in envy, my dear,” Vivienne murmurs, adjusting the shining filigree cuff at her neck so that it rests _just so_ upon her. “Absolutely magnificent.”

Asha can’t help the heat that rises to her face--such praise from a woman like Vivienne, whose appearance is never anything less than immaculate and intimidatingly beautiful in equal measure, is not something to be taken lightly. Even so, she will still be happy to step out of these clothes once her duties are done.

Human culture is so vastly different from her own. Where among her clan, a Keeper’s robe is enough to convey everything that needs to be said about a leader, it isn’t so among them. Her Keeper’s robes are for battle--that had been the answer given to her when she’d asked why she wouldn’t be wearing them when she sat in judgement in the throne room at last.

No, they’d said. For that, she had to be the picture of power and grace. Refined, and fearsome. Unapproachable. A woman whose word was law, by divine right. And for that, they’d had a dress of dyed Vyrantium samite made. A second skin that didn’t quite suit her, Asha thought--though she’d be lying if she said she didn’t admire the way the fabric cascaded down her body like water. 

But from the way that they are looking at her now--Vivienne with great approval, and Josephine and the seamstress with delight and a touch of awe--it serves its purpose. And so Asha chooses to think of it then as just another set of armor, even if it isn’t the armor that she would have picked.

“Whenever you are ready, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, bowing before sweeping out of her quarters with the others at her heels. Asha waits until she hears the door at the bottom of the landing click shut before she expels a shaky sigh and clenches her hands into tight fists.

She can do this. She is capable, she reminds herself. She had been their unanimous choice.

She is enough.

A reverent hush falls over the hall when Asha finally walks into the room. The tap of her staff on the stone rings out in the silence. Her steps are careful, measured as she walks onto the dais and seats herself on the throne, reminding herself that she must breathe even though the eyes of many are on no one but her.

For a moment, Asha wonders at the picture that this must make. The hall is filled with more people than she’d thought were currently in Skyhold, the crush of bodies separated down the middle by the ceremonial guard of the Inquisition’s troops that line the path to her. They stand at attention, postures rigid.

Cullen stands to her right, in full armor, hands resting gently on the pommel of his sword. For this, Josephine had insisted that--though she had a military guard--he must be her _personal_ guard for the occasion.

“It is a calculated display of power,” she had said, smiling. “The commander of an army, and the woman who commands him.”

Asha had pretended, then, not to notice the way that Cullen had shifted his weight and lightly cleared his throat--and hadn’t protested at all. She had pretended not to notice the way that her heart had leapt into her throat. Even now, at the memory--at the thought of how it must look--her fingers flex around the polished grip of her staff, her blood pulsing with heat.

Asha rests her free hand against the cool, polished marble of the throne. Out of all of the grand options that Josephine had presented for her to hold court upon, Asha had made the least likely choice. And yet, it serves her well--her one decision, made looking through the lens of what would best suit her if one of her many duties was to inspire faith.

Faith inspires the design, in fact. The seat is a heavy, sharply carved block of pristine, white marble. And it’s surrounded with carefully shaped flames of gold, rising high. In the center of them towers a statue of Andraste, her stone gaze to the skies and expression placid as she burns.

Asha is not unaware of the symbolism. But for the Andrastians who watch her, now, she is mostly certain that they all miss her own symbolism. Her, seated among flames that do not touch her while Andraste is engulfed. The dark part of her--the young and bitter Asha’revas of many years past, freshly educated about the Chantry and what they had done to her people with their Exalted March, in the name of Andraste--wants to wear a smile with a little too much teeth as they look at her.

But her expression is composed, carefully neutral as she hears the rattle of shackles and watches the soldiers bring Gereon Alexius to stand before her. Her hand tightens the slightest amount on her staff as he looks at her, sneering with a fury that, somehow, doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You recall Gereon Alexius, of Tevinter,” Josephine announces, positioning herself on the side of the dais. “Ferelden has given him to us as acknowledgment of your aid.” She glances at the notes in her hand and reads, “The formal charges are apostasy, attempted enslavement, and attempted assassination--on your own life, no less.”

Asha’s ears twitch, catching the sound of leather creaking as Cullen’s grip tightens around the pommel of his sword.

“Tevinter has disowned and stripped him of his rank,” Josephine adds, voice going stiff as she turns to look at the man. “You may judge the former magister as you see fit, Inquisitor.”

Asha tilts her head, slightly, and draws a steadying breath. Her voice is as cool as the air in the Frostbacks when she says, “I remember what would have happened to Thedas if his treachery had succeeded.” Red flashes in her mind for a brief moment, a high warble ringing in her ears--a song that isn’t there.

The wretched scar in the center of her chest aches.

Alexius lets out a bitter, ugly laugh with no humor. His eyes are almost feverish as he glares at her and rasps, “I couldn’t save my son. Do you think my fate matters to me?” A soft murmur rises among the crowd then, the people turning to each other and whispering.

Josephine looks unimpressed. “Will you offer nothing more in your defense?” she asks coolly.

“You’ve won _nothing_ ,” Alexius spits. Asha watches the hands of the guards tighten dangerously upon his shoulders, warning him not to make sudden moves--but she feels no threat as she listens to the words of a man with nothing left to live for. “The people you’ve saved, the acclaim you’ve gathered--you’ll lose it _all_ in the storm to come.” He tips his chin up, but the move is not half as defiant as it is resigned. “Render your judgment, Inquisitor.”

Asha stares a little longer than is necessary, thinking carefully. She had never held the weight of lives in her hands when she’d been with her clan--she had never gotten to that point. But she’d had plenty of lessons given to her by the people. She’d been encouraged to settle disputes among her own, though she--as anyone--had deferred to Deshanna in the end.

But Deshanna is not there with her now. She is not an apprentice any longer. And so she thinks of what might be best for the Inquisition. For her people. Their needs come before anything. And what the Inquisition needs right now, still in the early stages of its revitalization, is information.

“Alexius,” Asha intones, and a hush falls over the murmuring crowd once again. Her heart is pounding, her hands gripping her staff so tightly that her fingers might not shake as the smallest, most doubtful part of her tries to convince her that she is not capable of this. But she is. She is, and she must be. “The magic you wielded should have been impossible. And the Inquisition can use knowledgable people like you. So I sentence you to serve, under guard, as a researcher on all things magical for the Inquisition.”

Confusion flickers in Alexius’ eyes. “No execution?” he murmurs, and shocked voices rise in the crowd.

“I am not _finished_ ,” Asha snaps, her voice like the crack of a whip, striking them all into silence once again. Her gaze flicks to the crowd--and she catches sight of Fiona standing against the far wall, her hands folded in front of her as she silently watches the proceedings. Asha looks back to Alexius. “You swore to the mages that you would help them, did you not?” When he gapes at her, her eyes harden. “ _Answer_.”

“I did,” Alexius responds, wariness creeping into his tone. The chains about his wrists rattle as he shifts.

Asha is firm when she speaks again. “You will uphold that promise,” she says. With her staff, she motions to where the former Grand Enchanter stands, and heads turn to look. “Fiona will take charge of you on all other matters. Any other knowledge, favor, or coin that you possess with go to the mages’ future. And whatever you learn for the Inquisition will go to yours.” Her eyes narrow down to fine slits. “There is much work to be done.”

Alexius scoffs, softly. He looks as though she has struck him, but perhaps he thinks what she has done is worse. She has forced him to live. And that hadn’t been what he had wanted. “A headsman would have been kinder,” he mutters.

Without another word, Asha pushes herself from her seat and rises, striding forward. The guards tighten their grip on Alexius as gasps sound through the crowd--behind her, Cullen moves as if to block her, but she stills him with a wave of her hand. She knows what she is doing.

She stands before Alexius, nearly a full head shorter, her fine skirts rippling around her. She goes toe-to-toe with him, and her tone brooks no argument when she bites out, dangerously low, “I am not here to be _kind_ to you.”

He falls into silence then, as does everybody else. They watch as she takes a step back after a long, tense moment, and then the guards take him away. Asha turns from the sight, stepping back onto the dais. She feels Cullen’s eyes follow her as she takes her seat upon the throne once again.

“Is that all, Lady Ambassador?” she asks, careful to remain formal in front of so many.

“It is, Your Worship,” Josephine breathes, an impressed smile touching the corners of her mouth. Asha blinks hard at that title, feeling as though the air has been sucked out of her lungs. But she brushes her shock aside when Josephine says, softly, “We must have a council today, however. I know that you must prepare for your journey to Crestwood, but there is a matter that needs your attention.”

“Alright,” Asha says, eyeing her for any hints as to what the matter might be. Josephine, however, holds her cards close to her chest and says nothing further. “Give me a moment to change, and I’ll be with you,” she says. Josephine nods and steps away as Asha rises once more.

She freezes in place when Cullen moves before her, his hand extended so that he might escort her down the dais. Asha hesitates for only a moment before slipping her hand into his. He must have caught the look on her face, though, because he leans in close, his voice nothing more than a rumble in her ears when he murmurs, “Josephine is going to scold me when you aren’t around if I don’t act proper.”

Asha doesn’t quite manage to hold back a laugh, at that. Her eyes twinkle with humor when she glances at him. “You should ask her to wait until I am around; I’d like the entertainment.”

His fingers squeeze hers then, lightly, just before he lets go. He says nothing, but she’s earned a rare smile, even if it is at his expense. Asha gives him a lingering look before she turns to disappear into her quarters.

She is, perhaps, a little too flattered when she feels the weight of his eyes upon her back the entire time, until the door to her private landing swings shut behind.

 

XXX

 

Leliana lets out a disappointed cluck when Asha slips into the war room. “You changed,” she sighs.

Asha smiles, coming to stand at her end of the war table. “Of course I did,” she replies breezily, more than content in her warm leathers.

Leliana purses her lips and turns to Josephine. “I wanted to see it up close.”

“It is magnificent, isn’t it?” Josephine breathes, pressing a hand to her heart. “Lady Vivienne has impeccable taste. I can’t wait to see what she has in mind for Empress Celene’s ball.”

“Is that the ball we haven’t got a way into yet?” Cullen mutters, pretending to study a report from his lieutenant. Asha presses her fingers to her lips, hiding a smile as Leliana scoffs at him.

“We have plenty of time,” she says, waving off his words. She plucks a folded missive from the top of a stack of papers and passes it over the table. “In the meantime, Inquisitor, your Keeper has sent you this.”

Asha carefully unfolds the letter, smiling at the sight of her Keeper’s familiar handwriting. But her smile fades almost immediately as she begins to read. 

 

_Da’len,_

_I would not trouble you normally. You have enough on your shoulders, fighting ancient Tevinter magisters while representing your people. Unfortunately, the rifts that plague this land have spread chaos and fear along with them, and many seek to take advantage of it._

_Bandits are attacking Clan Lavellan. These raiders are well-armed and heavily armored, and they come in numbers our hunters cannot match. We had settled in a small, unclaimed valley not far from Wycome, a safe place with few rifts--but these bandits may force us to seek a new home. And with the position that we are in, I am not certain that we would survive even that. If your Inquisition can help, you might save our clan much hardship._

_Dareth shiral, da’len. Send word soon._

_\-- Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

 

Asha glances up from the letter, eyes wide and the blood drained from her face. Unease slithers down her spine and settles in her belly, making it lurch when she looks back to her advisors. “Bandits have been attacking my clan,” she murmurs, voice tight. The paper crumples in her grip, though she hardly notices. “In a valley near Wycome.”

A beat of silence passes, and then Josephine glances down at the map peppered with metal markers. “Wycome is an ally of the Inquisition,” she murmurs. “Duke Antoine has donated to our cause before. And there’s been no mention of the city being plagued by bandits…”

“That’s because they’re not plaguing the city,” Asha says, setting down the letter. “They’re going after my clan, more than once. My Keeper says they are well-armed and armored--and my clan is outnumbered.”

Leliana’s eyes narrow, and she folds her arms. “They sound as though they are more than mere bandits.”  

“They do,” Asha whispers, her eyes on the section of the map that depicts coastal Wycome. Somewhere, in the greens near the city by the sea, her clan is in danger. Her hands ball into fists so tight that she can feel her nails biting into her palms. “Give me options,” she commands.

“I can petition Duke Antoine to provide aid to your clan,” Josephine says. But Asha frowns at her and shakes her head.

“No,” she says gently. She doesn’t want to snap at Josephine, but something in her screams that asking the nobleman for aid would be the wrong thing to do. “I don’t trust him--a massive force of raiders operates so close to his city, and he does nothing? No.”

“I have agents in the area,” Leliana says then, tapping a section of the map not too far from Wycome. “Jester’s group. They can act as skirmishers, distracting the bandits long enough for your clan to flee somewhere safe.”

Asha hesitates. Trapped in a valley is the least ideal place for her clan to be, with all of their aravels and halla. Though what matters the most are the lives of her people, Leliana’s plan is not enough to save everything. With the size of the group that they face, it may not even be enough to save everyone. And Clan Lavellan had worked so hard, just to maintain what they did possess.

And they had lost their First, again. Asha can’t bear to disappoint them--to let them lose more.

Wordlessly, Asha’s gaze slides to Cullen, who stands directly across from her. He is watching her--and there is a calculating shine to his eyes. The silence stretches between them for a long while, until eventually, Cullen speaks.

“No simple bandits would attack a Dalish camp with such force,” he says quietly. “My troops can give your clan all the support they need.”

“Enough to kill every single bandit in that valley?” Asha asks, eyes flashing. Her tone is downright dangerous.

Cullen nods, his hands reaching for the roster of his troops to find the best of his men that he can send just as Asha’s hand closes around the little metal marker that symbolizes his forces. She slams it down over Wycome, hard enough that all the others dotting the map wobble from the force. Suddenly, the air in the room grows warm--Asha grits her teeth and pushes away from the table, muttering an excuse and heading for the great doors.

In the hall, Asha curls her fingers around the edges of the gaping hole in the side of the stone wall and exhales hotly. Wisps of steam swirl in the air before her. She breathes deeply for a long time, forcing herself to calm the crackle of flame in her blood and still her mind. It is far harder than she needs it to be.

When the heavy doors swing open again, Asha whirls and finds Leliana striding towards her. “I am sending a bird to Jester today,” she says, her frosty eyes glinting in the light. “I agree with you; I do not trust Duke Antoine either. And Josie is going to send a contact--a noble who will stay in Wycome and gather information as well.”

“I should be there,” Asha gasps, bringing a fist to her chest; the motion does nothing to calm the frantic ache. “They’re my family.”

“And that is why nothing will happen to them,” Leliana responds. Her voice is so firm, so sure, that it dulls the ferocity of the tempest raging within Asha for a moment. “Look at all of the resources at your disposal, Inquisitor. Look at all of the ways that you will be helping your clan. None of that would be possible if you were not here.”

“You’re right,” Asha says after a long pause. She sighs, and the fire within her goes out at last, leaving nothing but embers that she will likely revisit later, on the road to Crestwood. There is still much to do before they set out--ideally, by nightfall. There are other things that need her personal attention. She might be the Inquisitor, but she cannot be everywhere at once.

And so she must trust in her advisors. And she does, of course. She puts her faith in them, knowing that she would be hard-pressed to find better people for allies.

And later, when she saddles her hart and leads it to the gates, a gentle touch presses against her elbow. Asha turns, finding Cullen behind her. The dying light of day makes his hair shine gold, and the sight of it almost makes her smile. The rest of her party is already waiting at the gate, but she pauses for him.

“My troops will set out at first light, tomorrow,” he tells her. “Lieutenant Chambreterre knows that this is of the highest priority; no time will be wasted.”

“If I am not back before you hear from them--”

“I will send you whatever report I receive,” he says earnestly. His eyes are bright, the pupils dilated. “You have my word.”

Asha does give him a smile, then--a soft, slow thing that holds all the tremulous warmth she feels bloom within her at those words. Beside her, her hart huffs softly, pawing at the ground. She glances over her shoulder to the gates--Varric, Cassandra, and Solas are all waiting for her atop their own mounts. She must go.

But she turns back to Cullen, reaching out and laying her hand atop his, resting upon his sword. “Ma serannas,” she says.

A soft noise that might’ve been laughter escapes him. “Thank me when we receive word that your clan is safe,” he says.

“I will,” she replies, stepping away and swinging herself up. A gentle tug on the reins, and her hart is cantering towards the open gates, the rest of her party already moving at her approach.

“Is everything alright, Inquisitor?” Cassandra asks when she pulls up beside the rest of them. Behind them, the creak of the Skyhold gates beginning to lower echoes in the air.

“It will be,” Asha breathes, her fingers trembling as she thinks of the letter tucked into her pocket. She believes that. She has to.

 

XXX

 

_Sister Nightingale,_

_We have taken a keep in Crestwood from a group of bandits. Caer Bronach, just off the main road between Val Royeaux and Denerim. I believe your agents might be able to make good use of the place; until you outfit it with your people, there will be guards posted to deter anybody else from entering._

_There is another matter, however, that I need your aid with. Crestwood’s mayor has vanished and left behind a letter confessing that he flooded old Crestwood ten years ago, during the Blight. Not only did he murder sick refugees--many of his own people were collateral damage in the process. And yet again, he does all he can to save his own skin. This cannot stand; I want him brought to Skyhold for judgment. Use whatever method to hunt him down that you see fit._

(Here, a very long and unintelligible scribble.) _Is the commander well?_

_\-- Asha’revas Lavellan_

 

_Inquisitor,_

_My agents have been dispatched. Crestwood’s mayor will have to stop for supplies at some point on his journey; my people will make inquiries and track him down. Maker willing, he will be in Skyhold’s cells when you return._

_He has yet to receive word from his lieutenant, but it cannot be long until the troops reach Wycome. We will know soon enough. Other than that, he is as insufferable as usual. He spends a great deal of time in his office; the healers say he hasn’t been by at all. I doubt Josie or I would have as much success at convincing him to see them as you would._

_\-- L._

 

_Sister Nightingale,_

_Charter has news of your man; I am sure she will send it in a much more encrypted manner than I ever could. Take care--though I suppose I don’t need to tell you that. I have news regarding the Wardens; we’ve made contact with our mutual ally. We must turn our focus to the Western Approach._

(Here, a sizeable splotch of ink, and then nothing.)

_\-- Asha’revas Lavellan_

 

_Inquisitor,_

_I’ve received word from Charter; we will discuss the matter upon your return to Skyhold. As for our ally’s intel, the Western Approach is treacherous. This will take time to prepare for._

_One of my birds went missing this morning, by the way. The white-breasted one. I imagine you might see it not long after you receive this; the commander looks better today than he has in over a fortnight._

_\-- L._

 

XXX

 

_Commander Cullen,_

_Our troops made good time to Wycome and entered the valley in force. The Dalish were greatly surprised to see Inquisition soldiers coming to fight on their behalf, but when we broke the line of attacking bandits, the Dalish were quick enough to fight by our side._

_Our combined forces killed most of the bandits and drove the few survivors away. I doubt they will be coming back, though they were indeed well-armed._

_Duke Antoine of Wycome offered his gratitude for dealing with the bandits and offered the Inquisition his hospitality while we were near his city. He has promised to ensure that no further harm comes to the Dalish while they are near Wycome. I’ve taken the liberty of learning the layout of the city, should we need it. We should keep an eye on the duke._

_\-- Lieutenant Rozellene Chambreterre_

(Beneath this, in Cullen’s slightly unsteady hand.) _Josephine’s contact is already in place in Wycome, Inquisitor. By the time you return, I expect we’ll have heard more from her. For now, your clan is safe._

_\-- Cullen_

 

XXX

 

_Commander Cullen Rutherford,_

_Clan Lavellan wishes to extend its thanks directly to you for sending your soldiers to aid us in dealing with the bandits outside of Wycome. Our clan does not have much to provide in the way of material things, but thanks to the Inquisition, we have not lost what little we possess._

_With this is a gift of gratitude; ironwort blooms most abundantly in this region. Boil the stems well, and the drink eases pain._

_Nuvas ema ir’enastela._

_\-- Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

 

XXX

 

_Cullen,_

_I owe you all the thanks I can possibly give, ma'halla. May we see each other soon._

_\-- Asha_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: chess, I think? And preparations.
> 
> Elvhen translations from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen:  
> "Nuvas ema ir’enastela." - Lit. may you have great blessings. Essentially, 'thank you very much'.  
> "Ma'halla." - Lit. my halla. A term of endearment for a very close friend that you trust implicitly.


	13. Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha feels much more at ease here, though. Alone in the garden with him, bathed in the glow of magelights. Creators, he probably doesn’t know what he does to her. How he, most unexpectedly, makes her want to seek him out and ask him things, tell him things. Him, of all people. ‘Fen’harel is laughing, somewhere,’ she thinks. The Trickster God, playing joke after joke on her--survivor of the Conclave, Herald of Andraste, leader of the Inquisition--
> 
> Heart full of affection for a human man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's dialogue

_"Girl, come show me your true colors._   
_Paint me a picture with your true colors._   
_These are the questions of a new lover,_   
_true colors, true colors."_   
**\-- 'True Colors' by The Weeknd**

* * *

 

Asha wonders if he knows what he is doing to her. He must. Surely, he must. “You would have to show me how to play,” she says, good-naturedly mocking his invitation. An invitation that she wouldn’t dream of turning down.

Cullen blinks, eyes brightening in a slow realization as he glances from the chessboard before him to the branches inked on her forehead. “Forgive me,” he says, and his smile is sheepish. For a moment, Asha thinks that he’s about to excuse himself--to return to his duties, even though she wishes he wouldn’t work himself to the bone like he has been--but then he gestures to the empty seat opposite him. “I would not mind. If you have the time, that is.”

There is no hesitation when she slides into the seat, one lean leg crossing over the other. His eyes follow the motion--surely, he must know what he is doing to her. “Where do we start?”

Skyhold’s garden is fragrant and holds only a handful of people. The shadows grow long as the last light of day bleeds on the horizon, throwing brilliant colors across the earth that will soon fade. Though there is still scaffolding and cracked stone that needs mending in many places, the garden is something that Asha has personally been improving. Dozens of clay pots line the far wall, their blooms only just beginning to sprout from seeds that she’d picked up along the way.

They will have a wonderful supply of healing herbs when her plants reach maturity. She thinks, briefly, about the royal elfroot, embrium, and the rare dawn lotus that’s managed to take in the fertile soil. Asha glances up from the game pieces, gaze falling on Cullen’s face as he explains their purpose.

He’s gotten paler, lately. It could be from the stress of work--the fact is that she sees him in the garden playing a game with Dorian or Leliana less and less now that they have all been forced to focus on how they might gain a foothold in the Western Approach. And Creators knew the man saw sleep as more of an optional matter, when it came to the Inquisition needing results.

“Inquisitor?”

Asha blinks, and then realizes that he’s caught her staring. Her ears press flat against her skull, and she is grateful that dusk does not entirely betray the deep color in her cheeks. “I was listening,” she says, a smile spreading across her face as he quirks a brow, doubtful. “I was only thinking that seeing you taking a break is a welcome surprise.” A beat passes, and then she adds, teasingly, “And I think you can drop the formality, for now.”

He chuckles, twirling a game piece in his fingers as he looks away from her. Affection melts within her at the sound, rich and warm. “You looked so serious, I thought I might’ve done something.”

She snorts. “We’re playing a game. Well, you are teaching me a game. There’s hardly any way to offend me.”

“Ah,” he murmurs, smiling. “But there is a way.”

Asha rolls her eyes good-naturedly and replies, “Yes, but you haven’t done your best impression of Solas, telling me I’m like a child trying to play at things I do not understand. So, I remain unoffended.”

All of the humor vanishes from Cullen’s eyes, then. He looks equal parts baffled--that anyone would speak to her like that--and offended on her behalf, for the same reason. “He said that?”

Asha shrugs, waving it off. “Once, a long time ago. He’s learned since then.” She studies the pieces laid out before her and glances up through her lashes at him; in the shadows that have fallen as the sun fades, her eyes have begun to faintly glow. “I can see why you enjoy this game.”

“Oh?” he murmurs, and now he is the one staring. There’s an old feeling, buried in the back of his mind--ugly and unwelcome in its familiarity. The color of her eyes, unnaturally bright, draws it out--and he half hates himself for it. But it is blessedly fleeting, and in its place comes a desire to not look away. Because it is her, and she is real.

She hums, nodding. “A game that needs strategy, and a tactical-minded man. It seems obvious.”

Cullen does look away then, feeling heat in his cheeks and telling himself that her words are nothing more than an observation about him. Even if they do sound like praise. “I was not nearly so tactical-minded as a child,” he says, and Asha notices the way that his voice changes when he talks about the past--the way it grows faint as his mind goes far. “My sister won against me often--all the time, really. But my brother and I practiced together for weeks.” He smiles then, a gentle and fond thing. “The look on her face the day I finally won…”

Asha grins, pressing her fingers to her mouth. He sounds so smug that it’s endearing, that winning a game as a child is a point of pride for him even now. “I didn’t know you had siblings,” she murmurs. She wonders what else she doesn’t know about him--things that she would like to know.

She would like to know everything, actually. She doesn’t say that aloud, watching as he resets the board.

“Two sisters, and a brother,” Cullen says. Some of the light falls from his eyes, then, a solemn note creeping into his voice. “Between serving with the Templars and the Inquisition, I haven’t seen them in years. I wonder if Mia still plays.”

Asha runs a finger delicately over the shining surface of one of her towers. She tries not to sound like she is prying when she asks, “Where are they now?”

“South Reach,” he answers. “They moved there after the Blight.” A beat passes, and then he quietly admits, “I do not write to them as often as I should.”

Asha blinks up at him, then--and he looks at her, the same thought seeming to cross their minds. She struggles to find words for a moment, thinking of all of his correspondence that she has kept, tucked away in the cover of a book on her desk. He always writes back. She manages to keep her expression neutral when she says, gently, “You should.”

Especially now, she thinks. With what is sure to be a confrontation with the Grey Wardens looming. She doesn’t want the thought in her head, but she is plenty aware of how dangerous it will be. They all are. Though she wants peace, if they are up to half of what Hawke and Stroud suspect of them… If her worst fears are confirmed when she goes to the Western Approach…

“I should,” Cullen agrees, pulling Asha from her thoughts. Even in the dark, she can see the melancholy on his face, as she can hear it in his voice. But then he looks at her, and a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I can almost hear Mia’s voice in my head. ‘Even the Inquisitor writes to her family often--what’s your excuse?’ Andraste preserve me.”

Asha’s laughter rings out, lovely in the stillness of the garden. They are now the only two out now, sitting in the pavilion as a gentle breeze rolls through. “That’s a fair point to make,” she says, hands resting in her lap. She rolls her wrists, and Cullen watches as soft magelight flickers to life between her fingers. She glances up at him then, a question in her eyes. When he says nothing, she raises her palms, pushing magic up and out. Its familiar hum fills the silence, and they are bathed in the glow.

“Do you have siblings?” Cullen asks, his hand resting on the chessboard between them. He makes no move to play. His mind is otherwise occupied now, wondering about the family that she must have left behind but doesn’t speak of.

But Asha shakes her head. “I was an only child,” she murmurs. “But I always had--” Her breath catches for a moment. “--someone to play with, when I was young. My clan was not so small that I ever wanted for company.” That had come later. After. When she became the Keeper’s First, when she wasn’t a child any longer. She swallows hard and forces the thought away. “South Reach… That’s near the Brecilian Forest.”

“It is,” Cullen says. “You know it?”

“I know of it,” she says. “Warden-Commander Mahariel’s clan settled close to there, for a time.” She smiles and adds, “We’d met before, but we crossed paths in the Free Marches, once. After they relocated from the Blight.”

Cullen is quiet for a moment. She catches his eye, catches his gaze trailing over the curves of her face, lingering on her vallaslin. “Did you grow up in the Free Marches?” he asks after a while, his tone careful. As though he fears he is prying--but Asha would happily answer almost anything he asked.

She likes this--the quiet learning of two. It eases her mind, takes her away from her worries. It makes her feel like a normal woman. She fiddles with a piece on the chessboard, their intended game forgotten. “For the most part,” she says. She looks at him, then. “But I was actually born here, in Ferelden.”

Cullen gapes at her. “You were?” he asks, and he sounds so pleased by the revelation that it makes her grin. Fereldans, with their love of dogs and country.

“I was,” Asha murmurs. “Though I don’t call myself a Fereldan, obviously. But my mother was from the Amaranthine alienage, and I was born in the Wending Wood.”

Cullen looks stunned, and she can see his mind working, wondering what to ask first. Privately, Asha admits that it’s flattering, how interested he seems. It makes her feel less like an Void-taken fool for wanting to know so much of him.

“An alienage,” he says at last, sounding uncomfortable.

Asha gives him a wry smile. “Unexpected?”

“Yes,” he says simply. Honestly.

“I’m a little pleased that you didn’t know,” Asha says, leaning back in her seat. She uncrosses her legs, stretching, arching her back like a cat until she feels the satisfying pops. She misses the half-longing look that he gives her, at that. She is only too happy to relax, to release herself from the weight of her role and the rigid, proper decorum it demands.  “And here I thought Leliana had pages and pages on me.”

“She likely does,” Cullen murmurs, his voice a bit hoarse. “But I am not one to…”

“...Pry?” she finishes when his words fail him. “I didn’t think so.”

A beat of silence passes. “Am I?” he asks, and he sounds so worried that it makes something flutter in her chest, all light and sweetness.

“No,” is her immediate answer. She quirks a brow at him. “Am I?”

“No,” he breathes, as though the thought is ridiculous. Somewhere, faint laughter and music floats through the air. Flissa’s new tavern is only recently opened, and Asha smiles thinking of it. The Herald’s Rest, it has been christened. She might not ever come to like her title, but she certainly is honored.

Asha feels much more at ease here, though. Alone in the garden with him, bathed in the glow of magelights. Creators, he probably doesn’t know what he does to her. How he, most unexpectedly, makes her want to seek him out and ask him things, tell him things. Him, of all people. _‘Fen’harel is laughing, somewhere,_ ’ she thinks. The Trickster God, playing joke after joke on her--survivor of the Conclave, Herald of Andraste, leader of the Inquisition--

Heart full of affection for a human man. A human man who was a Templar, who is pulling and pulling on his lyrium leash so hard that he shakes, so that he might snap the chain for good.

It has to be Fen’harel. Asha thinks of Fen’harel, because the thought that it might be Mythal’s work--Mythal, Protector, All-Mother, goddess of love--

The thought puts thunder in her blood, roaring. She doesn’t know what that would mean, can’t ask it now.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asks. Asha blinks and wonders what kind of face she must have been making, for him to look at her the way that he is.

“I was just thinking,” she answers. Her voice is, blessedly, even. And he is not one to pry.

Rather, he looks thoughtful. “Do you know,” he begins, a smile touching his lips, “this might be the longest we’ve gone without discussing the Inquisition--or related matters. To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

The smile that she gives him is wicked, born from the surge of pleasure that rises in her at that. “Commander Cullen enjoying shirking his duties?” she teases, earning a soft huff of laughter.

“I am not alone out here,” he points out, and her eyes shine.

“True enough,” Asha concedes, doing her best not to sound so affected by him. She thinks she might be failing horribly--and what’s more, she finds it hard to care. “We should spend more time together.”

The shift in Cullen’s expression is so quick--but she watches him so closely that she doesn’t miss the way that his eyes go wide and a pleasantly surprised smile tugs at his mouth, makes him look almost _boyish_ in a way that has her heart stuttering. “I would like that,” he says, breath catching in the middle.

Asha sinks her teeth into her lower lip, biting back a confession that nearly wills itself past her lips anyway. But now, she thinks, is not the time for that. Later, she tells herself. Maybe. Maybe, if they ever have time.

It isn’t strange, the idea of her taking a lover. When she’d been an apprentice, in training, nobody had vied for her affection--but then, that was because they had known better. She had been so focused on her studies, on learning what she needed to do and who she needed to be, that she hadn’t wanted the distraction.

But this is more than a distraction. Would be more than a distraction. It might even be worse. When Asha thinks of the possibility--slim, ridiculously so, but one she can’t put out of her mind--that Cullen, with his honeyed eyes and presence that she is ever-aware of, might feel the same way for her…

Surely he knows. Surely he knows; she is not subtle. She doesn’t care to be. Da’lath’in. Her heart is on her sleeve, and he’s had his finger on the pulse for weeks. Months.

And Cullen has never rebuffed her. He is not entirely subtle either. Reserved, absolutely. But in her mischievous moments when her blood runs hot, when she pushes against him, tests his resistance--she finds, many times, there is none.

“We were meant to play a game,” Cullen says after a long silence. His tone is light, not at all bothered by the fact that they have done nothing but talk.

Asha smiles at him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps we can try again another time. I enjoy talking to you,” she says. A push.

No resistance. “As do I.” He hesitates for a moment, but then, “Might I ask you something?”

Asha steeples her fingers together on the board. “You don’t even have to preface the question with a question,” she teases, and he lets out a soft huff of amusement. But his mirth falters and fades, and Asha finds herself bracing for whatever his question is.

“Are your parents with your clan?” The question is, she realizes, his own way of testing. Pushing. It’s an unremarkable one--or rather, it would be. He sounds like this is the first time he’s wondered about her family--in fact, it probably is. Concern colors his tone, and Asha nearly winces at the answer she must give him.

“Mother,” Asha corrects gently. “My father, whoever he was, stayed in the alienage. She did bond with a man in the clan, though. He was a craftsman, and he was kind.” She shrugs, unsure of how she might blunt this. She realizes she can’t; her ears quiver as she shakes her head. “But no. They died when I was a child.” She gives him a wry smile, but there is little levity to be heard when she explains, “Human hunters who took issue with knife-ears.”

The slur makes him flinch. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Asha ignores it. It’s decades past, now. And those hunters are dead. “They did all they could to give me a better life than what I might’ve had,” she says, thinking of what she knows of city elves, happy to never be one. Asha’revas--a free woman. She tilts her head, studies him. “Yours?” she asks.

Cullen swallows hard, shadows in his eyes. “They did not survive the journey from Honnleath to South Reach.”

Asha remembers then what she knows about his childhood. Taken to the Templars at age thirteen--so young, she’d said. And now she knows it is the last time he saw his mother and father. She thinks for a moment, quiet. She doesn’t want to pity him--even though a part of her imagines how it must have been, to go through whatever happened at Kinloch, followed by Kirkwall, and losing part of what remained of happier times in between.

At least she had been young enough to recover. From that, anyway.

“I’m sure they would be proud of the man you are now,” Asha says deliberately. Carefully.

“The man I am now,” Cullen murmurs. His eyes are pained when he looks at her. “Perhaps,” he says, but the word is uttered in doubt.

Asha shifts in her seat then, reaching for the leather pouch at her hip. Her fingers close around smooth glass, and she plucks out the figurine she’s kept hidden for longer than she’d hoped to, deciding that now is as good a time as any to set it before him. She would wipe the shadows from his eyes, sweep away the tired smudges in the skin underneath, if she could.

Cullen stares at the image of a sparkling, delicately crafted glass halla. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for it.

“For you,” Asha prompts him.

He blinks. “Where did you get this?” is all he can manage. He is staring at it like he isn’t sure that it’s real, and Asha doesn’t know if it’s because he likes it or he thinks it strange. His face gives away nothing, for once.

“Off a body,” she says, but she muffles a laugh when his brows shoot up. “I’m teasing you. A merchant was selling baubles on our way out from Crestwood. I’ve actually gotten many for the others, but I… Well, I never found one for you. Until then.” A beat passes. “They had a little mabari totem, but I wasn’t sure how keenly you take to Ferelden stereotypes.”

Cullen snorts, his fingers closing around the glass halla and holding it up in the light. He doesn’t tell her that he, Fereldan to the core, would’ve liked the mabari totem--but this, he likes too. He might like almost anything, from her. He feels a bit silly for it, thinking that the answer is likely an obvious one that he still misses, but he can’t help asking, “Why a halla?”

Asha hesitates for half a moment, the thump of her heart pounding unnaturally loud in her ears. “Ma’halla,” she says, slowly. “It’s--” Her pulse jumps, and the air warms. “--a term of endearment. For a very close friend.”

The color that rises to his face is nothing short of remarkable. “I--” he stutters, teeth clicking when he snaps his mouth shut. He looks stunned. She decides, then, that she rather likes rendering him speechless. Especially as a result of gestures that he thinks, for whatever reason, are too kind for him. She can see it in his disbelieving eyes.

“You’re welcome,” she says, cheekily.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen breathes, nearly stumbling over the words. “Thank you.” His fingers tighten over the figurine, a thumb running over the polished surface. He lets out a soft huff of something that might’ve been laughter, and then he looks at her. “You give things so freely,” he says, awkwardly.

Asha smiles, thinking that she catches his meaning. “Trade is important to my clan,” she says. “Items for favors--with us, it’s usually what we can forage.”

“So I’ve seen,” he says, thinking of the bundle of ironwort he keeps stored in the loft above his office, the stems that he brews into tea that really does ease some pain. His heart trembles, a weaker thing than he’d like.

“This is a gift, though,” Asha says, not wanting him to think that her gestures of affection are conditional. Half-hoping that he recognizes it as a gesture of affection. “Not for anything in return.”

“I would not even know what to get you,” Cullen admits. The idea that he would sincerely want to gift her something sends a sweet shock through her.

“I enjoy plants, and I am surprised that you haven’t noticed that by now,” she quips, gesturing to the garden at large.

He shakes his head at her, biting back a smile. “I have. But despite my farm boy upbringing, I confess that I have little interest in them.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” She grins. “Plants require a delicate touch,” she says, ignoring the way her mind flits to consider all the times he has touched her before, and how gentle those touches been.

“You make me sound like a brute,” Cullen replies, but he sounds more amused than offended.

“Are you denying that you’re the type to mostly think with your fists?”

“I am.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Asha drawls, rising from her seat to lean her hands against the chessboard; Cullen’s eyes darken at how close she gets, how she looks down on him from where she stands. “Your clan is worried we’ve taken you prisoner? Let’s send _soldiers_ \--”

“You are never going to let me live that down,” he breathes, and the corners of his mouth are quirking up even as she barrels on.

“--and Lord Presmond-Als is being a massive cock--”

“He was!”

“--so let me send a _battalion_ to march on his holdings,” Asha finishes with a snort, her eyes shining.

Cullen is, Creators have mercy, grinning at her, warmth flickering in his own gaze. “Are you quite finished?” he asks, and there is a delicious edge to his voice that sends a shiver skittering down the length of her spine.

She grins back. “Even if I am, I’m sure you’ll give me more examples at tomorrow’s council.”

“Perhaps I should simply stay silent and read reports then,” he replies, rising to his feet as well. But even though he stands much taller, it still feels as though Asha keeps the upper hand. He is teasing, curious about what side of her he might see in return.

Asha laughs softly, winking out her magelights with a wave of her hand as they begin to walk back into Skyhold. The stone terrace is cool beneath her feet, and Cullen is a solid presence at her back. “That wouldn’t do well for you, I think.” She throws him a glance over her shoulder, a wicked glint in her eye. “Then it really would look like we’re only keeping you around to look nice.”

Cullen ducks his head, trying to hide the color in his cheeks. “And who says that?” he asks, and his voice is not as even as he would like it to be. The foolish, youthful hope makes it unsteady.

“Varric,” Asha replies, and he groans, defeated.

Despite the fact that the hour grows late--and she had expected him to immediately retreat to his office--he follows her through the main hall, escorting her to her quarters. She smothers a smile in her hand, wondering if perhaps Josephine had actually reminded him about the importance of _being proper_ , or if he simply wants to draw out their time together in what little way he can.

She knows for herself, it is the latter. They pass few people, most of the visiting dignitaries having retired to their quarters for the night, and her own people no doubt filling the tavern. Asha catches Varric’s eye as he sits by one of the fireplaces and writes, several open inkpots at his table. She smiles and waves, and he nods in return--and she doesn’t miss the knowing glint in his eyes when their gaze follows her and Cullen.

But then, something else draws her attention. Catches her ear. Soft, breathy whispers, nearly drowned in the crackle of a warm hearth and idle chatter of those who linger.

“Any stories?” an Orlesian man asks, voice thick with anticipation.

A woman’s high, breathy laugh answers him. “Oh, plenty. Nothing _interesting_ , though.”

The man clucks his tongue. “Our struggle is young. Rest assured, intrigue begets… _begetting._ ”

“You’re _awful_ ,” the woman chastises, teasingly. The man croons in agreement, and half a moment passes before she comments, “The garden _is_ lovely this time of night.”

Asha’s breath hitches in her throat, and she hears a sharp draw from Cullen behind her. Heat licks at her heart, and she wills herself to be still--to not look over her shoulder, not acknowledge the gossip, and not see whatever might be reflected in her commander’s eyes. She isn’t sure she would want to see the disapproval.

A more honest--and wishful--part of her isn’t even sure it would be there at all, and perhaps that makes her more anxious.

They come to the door at the end of the hall, though, and Asha turns and leans her back against the wood for a moment. When she meets Cullen’s eyes, they are warm in the firelight. Her whole body is warm, suffused with heat as her blood rushes while she looks at him.

The garden had indeed been lovely. “Perhaps next time,” Asha murmurs, the words weighted on her tongue. “I might actually be able to play against you.”

Cullen smiles, and she watches the tug of his lips--the way that silvery scar at the corner stretches. “Next time,” he agrees softly. He inclines his head to her, murmuring, “Sleep well, my lady.”

The formal address makes her heart skip. “I suppose it would be a fool’s errand to suggest that you do the same,” she remarks lightly. Her ear twitches at his answering chuckle.

“Perhaps. But I will take it into consideration.”

Asha snorts, shaking her head. Her palm is on the latch, ready to open the door and disappear for the night--but she still can’t help herself from giving Cullen a fond, lingering look. “Do try,” she whispers, and then she is gone.

 

XXX

 

The stuff of all her worst fears is what waits for her in the Western Approach. The blighted desert sun scorching her body, she can handle. Quillbacks, varghests, and even what few darkspawn still skulk through the shifting sands--all of those, she can handle. Does handle.

The metal branches twining up her staff bite into her skin as she grips it with such force that she might draw blood, shaking with fury and fear as she stares into the eyes of yet another magister with no soul. “You have deceived the Wardens,” she spits. “Seized their minds and forced them into this ritual.”

This monstrous ritual, mage Wardens spilling the blood of their own warriors onto the sandstone and summoning demons, binding them. Binding the Grey Wardens in the name of Corypheus, as they had feared.

But Livius Erimond laughs at her then, as though she has told the funniest joke. His grin is twisted. “Forced them?” he crows, gesturing to the few Wardens that flank him. Their gazes are empty, faces blank. “No. Everything you see here--the blood sacrifices to bind the demons? The Wardens did it of their own free will. Fear is a very good motivator.” He is smug when he adds, deliberately, “And they were _very_ afraid.”

Asha feels the well of her magic ripple, feels a storm beginning to thunder in her veins. She bares her teeth, snarling, “You will pay for this.”

Erimond smirks. “Oh, please.” He raises his palm to her, makes magic flicker, blood-red--and she grunts, breath catching in her throat as acidic light bursts through the Anchor, bringing her to her knees. “The Elder One showed me how to deal with you, in the event you were foolish enough to interfere again. But when I bring him your head, his gratitude will be--”

Asha rears up with a vicious shout, refusing to be brought to heel--she wrenches her burning hand up, out, welcomes the sear as she picks through ripples in the thin Veil, gathers them and pushes such force into them that they burst from the instability. Raw Fade energy pulses through the area, sending Erimond tumbling back with a cry.

Asha drags herself to her feet, stands tall and motions for her party to ready themselves. “You and your master are one and the same,” she hisses, advancing on Erimond even as he attempts to scurry back. “ _Fools_.”

 

XXX

 

(In an unsteady hand, as though the letter was frantically written.)

_Cullen,_

_I will not return to Skyhold; we have little time. It’s as we feared; Corypheus has driven the Wardens to near-madness with his false Calling. They held a ritual, led by a Venatori magister named Livius Erimond. The mages have been sacrificing the warriors to summon and bind demons; they think they can march through the Deep Roads and kill all the Old Gods, end all Blights--they know nothing of the fact that their ritual gives their minds to Corypheus. I tried to eliminate Erimond, but he is a snake and has evaded us._

_The Grey Wardens amass their forces at Adamant, at the Abyssal Rift. What we saw in the Approach was only a test--now that they know for certain that the ritual will work, they will no doubt have their demon army if we do not act quickly. We must lay siege to Adamant Fortress. I do not know if Warden-Commander Clarel can be reasoned with. I fear it may already be too late--but we must take action. I must try._

_I am sending missives to Leliana and Josephine with this one. Leliana will gather all the information we need on the fortress so that you may form a battle plan. Josephine will petition noble allies for aid; we lost our siege equipment at Haven, and we cannot afford to be without it now._

_Ready your men, Commander. Send word when you and your forces make for the Approach; recoup at Griffon Wing Keep. I will be waiting for you._

_\-- Asha_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the Inquisition marches.


	14. Siege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the inherent danger of this assault--a danger she has long-prepared for--Asha’s heart still stutters in her chest. Her voice is tight but controlled when she takes a step towards him, craning her neck to meet his fevered gaze and saying, “Keep the men safe.”
> 
> “We’ll do what we have to, Inquisitor,” Cullen responds automatically. Behind him, the soldiers stand a little straighter, bear their shields with a little more pride--though they already have more than enough to suit their needs.
> 
> Asha is not a stranger to the methods of leadership--the way that an utterance of caution can inspire greater faith, the way that the troops will fight harder if they know that she cares. But that isn’t why she says, “You’ll obey my orders, Commander, and my order is to take no risks that you cannot afford. Keep the men safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very exciting to me, honestly.

_"I can see the green light,_  
_I can see it in your eyes."_  
**\-- 'Over the Love' by Florence + the Machine**

* * *

 

When the first flaming projectile destroys a chunk of Adamant Fortress’ battlements, a roar of triumph rises from the soldiers; though they raise their weapons and cheer, Cullen cannot--will not--shake off the tension that has pulled his muscles taut like a drum. His gloved hand flexes around the grip of his sword as he gives the order to fire once more.

Beside him, Asha watches the fortress with solemn eyes. The silverite chains of her armor glitter under the light of the twin moons as she lights every projectile aflame with a graceful wave of her hand, just before they are launched into Adamant.

“Shields up!” Cullen orders, watching the troops obey. Magic hums in the air, and a barrier ripples over those that are ready to advance; there is no turning back from this point. “ _March!_ ”

As he watches Asha go with the soldiers, flanked by her loyal party members and Stroud, he wonders for a moment if Holy Andraste ever moved with half as much poise on the battlefield as she does now. There is no hesitation in her light-footed steps; her fingers are loose around the magnificent staff she carries, and she walks as though she is navigating through a gentle crowd in Skyhold’s main hall--not the chaos of their assault on a fortress that has stood tall since the time of the Second Blight.

He does not follow her, though--not yet. He stands back with the firing crew and the sappers, watching the battering ram and the scaling ladders move into position; he grits his teeth as he watches the Wardens rain stones and flaming projectiles on the steadily advancing Inquisition.

 _‘She will be fine_ ,’ he tells himself, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill wind that blows through.

A cry rises up somewhere down the line, and Cullen’s gaze shoots to a section of the battlements; the first of the ladders has been locked into place, and he can see his people rapidly scaling the walls. Then, an explosion--a massive wall of flame bursts up from behind the parapets, sending Grey Warden bodies tumbling over, into the sands below.

 _‘Hawke,’_ he thinks, half-witheringly, knowing full well there are only two mages on their side of the battle right now--and one of them is maintaining a barrier over the unit with the battering ram as it rolls into place before the gates of Adamant. With the thin Veil and demon hordes no doubt swarming the fortress, Asha had deemed the risk too great for their combat-able conscripts. But she herself is necessary, and as for Marian Hawke--

Well. Kirkwall’s Champion is nothing if not enthusiastic. And if he’s being honest with himself, Cullen would enjoy some of that enthusiasm if he were capable of it right now, but--

The demons. Sweat trickles down the nape of his neck, the fur of his pauldrons and lion’s helm overheating him. Or maybe it is the familiar nerves, burning in his blood. Not enough to make him falter--he would never, not considering what is at stake this night--but enough to make him very aware of the ache in his bones and the lack of lyrium in his veins.

 _‘Enough_ ,’ he tells himself viciously, readying his sword and shield as he hears the first, great groan of the battering ram colliding with Adamant’s gates. He advances with his unit then, slowly; the Grey Wardens are too occupied with the Inquisition soldiers on the battlements and the Inquisitor watching her men batter down their door.

He will keep the demons away and cut a path for her to the Warden-Commander. That is what he tells himself, reminding himself to ground his mind in this moment, so that he might not go careening back ten years and endangering them all. Endangering her. Regardless of what he must face--mage Wardens with their minds taken, enthralled demons, the overwhelming scent of too much spilled _blood_ \--

Cullen will not falter. He had given her his word back in that little tent in the middle of the mountains, her hand in his when he vowed that he would never fail her again as he had failed her at Haven. Regardless of what waits for them in Adamant, he will have faith. He will prove himself worthy of keeping hers.

 _‘In the long hours of night,_ ’ he thinks, scraps from the Canticle of Trials flitting through his mind. The men at the gates shout, heave with effort--the battering ram strikes again. Amidst the sea of the muted colors of Inquisition uniforms, he sees lilac wool and glittering chain. _‘When hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know your Light remains.’_

He isn’t thinking of the Maker, admittedly. When the final blow of the battering ram bursts open the doors, allowing the Inquisition--allowing _her_ \--to slip inside the fortress, he steels himself.

It’s blasphemous, perhaps. But Cullen has spent too much time losing his way, making the wrong choices because it had been easy and pious teachings had told him that he was righteous for it anyway--so now, is it so wrong for him to believe in Asha the way that he does?

His devotion to the Maker had inspired him in Kinloch. But neither the Maker nor His holy bride had come to save him when the demons had raked their nails over and into his flesh, torn things from him that he would never get back. Meredith Stannard’s cool and commanding presence had inspired him in Kirkwall--right up until he came to understand that he’d been sacrificing far more than his morality by willingly holding the blinds over his own eyes to the atrocities that she’d sanctioned. That he had been complicit in.

Is it so wrong, now? To want to devote himself to a woman who holds the power to shape the world in her dainty hands--hands capable of striking down dozens with a flick of her fingers, hands that he’s seen heal more than hurt, hands that have reached out to him many, many more times in his dreams than in life, gentle in every instance--real or imagined--of touch? To see her, who he is so unworthy of, and believe that the path she would beckon him down with careful, herb-stained fingers is the right one?

If anyone would damn Cullen for his ardent faith in Asha, then so be it. He can think of no one better to follow--no one who could ever even hope to come close.

 

XXX

 

“Pull back! They’re through!”

Asha glances up just in time to see a Warden running from the ledge of the level above, deeper into the fortress. Her fingers flex around the grip of her staff, the taste of a storm in her mouth as she feels the steady thrum of her magic rushing in her veins. If the majority of the Wardens are all holed up within the depths of Adamant, she will need every ounce of her mana--especially if all of them are lost, impossible to be reasoned with.

The thought makes dread curdle in her gut, sour and cold.

“Inquisitor!” Asha whirls on the spot, watching Cullen advance through the open gates with his unit behind him. Through the mouth of his lion helm, his eyes shine with the blaze of battle. “You have your way in,” he breathes, coming to stand before her. “Best make use of it. We will keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.”

Despite the inherent danger of this assault--a danger she has long-prepared for--Asha’s heart still stutters in her chest. Her voice is tight but controlled when she takes a step towards him, craning her neck to meet his fevered gaze and saying, “Keep the men safe.”

“We’ll do what we have to, Inquisitor,” Cullen responds automatically. Behind him, the soldiers stand a little straighter, bear their shields with a little more pride--though they already have more than enough to suit their needs.

Asha is not a stranger to the methods of leadership--the way that an utterance of caution can inspire greater faith, the way that the troops will fight harder if they know that she cares. But that isn’t why she says, “You’ll obey my orders, Commander, and my order is to take no risks that you cannot afford. Keep the men safe.”

Her soldiers' eyes shine when they look at her, at that; she’s never pulled rank before, but even Cullen looks at her as though it is a magnificent thing. It makes her heart clench; some of their people will die anyway. But she will not have them do so if she can help it. They have pledged their lives to her, in this--she will not treat them as if they don’t matter.

Cullen gaze flits over her shoulder when he says, “Warden Stroud will guard your back.”

“And Hawke?”

“On the battlements with our soldiers. She’s assisting them until you--” A terrified howl cuts through the air, and Asha turns just in time to see one of her people flung from the ramparts; her breath catches in her throat, but she is too late to do anything but watch them hit the ground with a crunch that she can hear even over the din of battle.

“There’s too much resistance on the walls,” Cullen says; Asha’s gaze follows his, finds the shade skulking above before it glides out of sight. Her breath shudders from her lungs. “Our men on the ladders can’t get a foothold.” His gaze entreats her, even though he doesn’t truly need to ask, “Can you make it to the choke points?”

“Of course,” she breathes; though their time is precious, this will be for nothing if their forces can’t hold long enough for her to make it to the heart of Adamant.

“If you clear the enemies on the battlements, we’ll cover your advance,” he says, gesturing for his men to ready themselves.

Asha glances to her own party; Cassandra and Blackwall stand at attention, their shields and weapons ready. Varric gives her a nod, his finger still positioned near Bianca’s trigger. Stroud watches silently, waiting for her orders. In a swift, practiced motion, she takes her staff in both hands, twirls it so that the end faces up. Affixed to it is the hollowed grip of her lazurite hilt.

The air around them vibrates for a moment, and then it hums as she manifests her magic into a broad, golden spirit blade; her staff is now a glaive. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end from the energy of it, and her eyes are fierce, glowing in the night as she looks at them.

“To the battlements,” Asha commands her party. “And then we find Warden-Commander Clarel.”

 

XXX

 

The one and only good thing that she might have to say about what greets her at the choke points is that there are not nearly as many demons as she’d expected to find.

There are, however, still a great deal.

The way of the Knight Enchanter is still an unfamiliar one to Asha--where she had been used to hanging back from the thick of melee, allowing herself enough room to dance in her own space and send spells flying, raining the elements down upon her enemies, now she can do _more_. The magical blade she wields weighs nothing extra in her hand, and she still dances as she always had--but now, she goes toe-to-toe with demons and wraiths, cleaving through them with the length of her modified weapon before they can seize her.

Dirth’ena enasalin, Solas had called the teachings that this specialization derived from. Knowledge that leads to victory--yet another thing that the Chantry had stolen and bastardized from her people. But Asha doesn’t think of that now; this, she makes her own. She brings it back to the people, even if she is the only one who battles in this manner on the field right now.

It’s frightening, to be so close to a shade that she can smell it, rotting flesh and claws dripping with ichor, doing its best to weaken her with its soul-sucking presence. But Asha does not waver; her barriers are stronger now than ever, and with each clean swipe of her ethereal blade, she steals the demon's energy, uses it to reinforce her own defenses without expending more of her mana than she has to. And though she is afraid, she will never shy away from her duty--she is the Inquisitor, and she would fight for her people with every ounce of strength in her body, as they fight for her.

Asha can see the faith that they have in her when she and her party steadily clear the path for Inquisition soldiers on the battlements. She sees it in the eyes of troops whose names she doesn’t know, but who all know her. “Inquisitor,” they whisper reverently when they scale the walls and find her waiting. She sees it in the way they straighten, shoulders slumped from the exhaustion of battle readying themselves for more when she reunites with Hawke on the battlements and tells her to stay with the Inquisition’s forces and protect them.

“I’ll keep the demons off them as best I can,” Hawke breathes, a wolfish grin splitting her face as her magic crackles in the air. Asha can’t help but return a smile at that--if Marian Hawke’s voracious appetite for battle will ensure that her men survive this night, she welcomes it gladly.

Whatever bright hope she feels at that, though, swiftly fades when she comes across a scrap of paper on the battlements. An impressive tent is pitched at one end, holding a supply cache that she picks through--finding potions and pressing them into Cassandra and Blackwall’s hands, repaying their generosity in battle as they’ve endeavored to take as many blows on her behalf as they can. And when she stands to leave, her eyes catch it then--a letter on the table in the tent.

Though they hardly have the time, something beckons Asha to look. She picks it up, knows that when she sees Erimond as the addressee that she should read.

What she finds has her gritting her teeth so hard she fears she may crack them, her hands trembling with rage. At her back, Cassandra shifts, gives her a worried look. “Inquisitor?” she murmurs.

“ _The Inquisition presses us to action_ ,” Asha bites out, reading from the letter. “ _Continue the rituals. If we must destroy them before we venture into the Deep Roads, so be it. But do not lie to me, Erimond. I stand against the Blight and no man, no Inquisitor, and no magister will get in my way._ ”

“Her mind has not yet been taken,” Stroud says, a touch of hope creeping into his tone. “Warden-Commander Clarel is an honorable woman--”

“Honorable?” Asha scoffs, glancing sidelong at him. “She declared you a traitor and ordered you to be killed.”

“She does not know--”

“No, she may not know, but do not make excuses for the fact that she would sacrifice you and your brothers, turning to blood magic because a _magister_ told her it would end the Blight,” Asha snarls, advancing on him. She understands Stroud wishing to believe the best of his leader--but Asha would sooner throw herself from the battlements than call Clarel an honorable woman.

She understands Clarel’s motivation--and that is why she despises her actions, tastes bile in the back of her mouth. An honorable woman wouldn’t spill the blood of those who depended on her leadership just so she could save her own skin and disguise it as noble, for the sake of the world. When Stroud looks as though he might protest, Asha can’t stop herself from adding, bitterly, “Warden-Commander Mahariel hears the same Calling as you do--and instead of cutting her Wardens’ throats, she set out to find a cure for it herself. Say what you like of Clarel--I would see her reasoned with, but I will _not_ let this go unanswered. Not when she readily admits she will kill anyone she has to if it means she succeeds.”

Asha tucks the letter into the pouch at her hip, and they move on, then--nothing more will be said on the matter for the moment. Asha leads them, running back down from the walls and passing through the main bailey of Adamant. She throws the inner doors open, and then ducks back, a blast of spirit energy bursting from her--enough to push back the rage demon that swipes its flaming claws at her.

“Inquisitor!” Hawke calls, sweeping her staff out in a wide arc; frost erupts from the head, engulfing the demon, turning its body to igneous rock. Cassandra barrels forward, brutally smashing it to pieces with a blow from her shield.

“How many more are there?” Asha calls, passing through the entryway; around the corner, she spies Cullen and Captain Rylen, their men standing with them. Cullen turns, catches sight of her as Rylen spots and salutes her.

“Fewer thanks to you,” Hawke says, tipping her head in acknowledgment.

“Inquisitor,” Rylen says, approaching her and her party, Cullen at his heels; the other soldiers stand back, holding their position. Rylen nods and glances to Hawke. “Hawke saved many lives on the battlements.”

“Good,” she says, glancing at Stroud.

“Not all of the Wardens have stood against us,” he says, voice tight. “And Maker willing, we may be able to reason with Warden-Commander Clarel.”

“And she will answer for what crimes she has committed,” Asha says solemnly. She turns to Cullen, gaze fierce. “Erimond as well. And I want him _alive_ , no matter what. He will be judged at Skyhold for his crimes.”

“Of course,” is Cullen’s automatic response. He and Rylen share a look, and then he says, “We will hold a path open for you as long as possible. Our forces are ready when you are.”

Asha nods, turning to look once more at her party, and then to the soldiers. “Prepare yourselves for whatever we might find in the main hall,” she says. And then she looks to Cullen, readying her staff; magic skitters over her skin, her body vibrating with energy as she manifests her spirit blade once again. “Let’s go.”

She leads them around the far corner, a metal door to the enclosure before the heart of the fortress swinging open when she pushes through. Light ripples from the Anchor, her palm sizzling with heat. A low buzz begins at the base of her skull, rising in intensity the closer she gets to the great doors into the main hall; she draws a sharp breath.

“Are you alright?” Cullen’s voice sounds near her; Asha nearly starts, realizing he is at her shoulder, his sword and shield at the ready. Through the mouth of his helm, she can see the tight lines of concern at the corners of his eyes, the familiar pucker in the center of his brow.

“I will be fine,” she murmurs, low enough that no one else can hear. Her ears twitch as she approaches the doors--they are indecipherable through heavy stone and metal, but she can hear voices on the other side. And something else--something raw and unnatural, a presence that shouldn’t be there.

When she bursts through the doors, it is just in time to see a severe-looking woman standing on a balcony, imposing in Grey Warden robes, slitting the throat of one of her men. Before her stand Grey Wardens, some mages and several not. They are before an unopened rift, the viridescent seam in the sky shimmering as they congregate around it. Her stomach turns. “ _Clarel!”_

Erimond snarls from his place beside the Warden-Commander, gesturing to Asha and her forces as they pour into the main hall. “Stop them!” he orders, and the warriors turn to her, drawing their weapons. “We must complete the ritual!”

Asha extends her hands, a barrier pouring over the people behind her; herself, she leaves out. She takes a careful step forward, her eyes drawn to the shine of the many blades before her. “If you complete that ritual,” she calls, voice ringing across the hall. “You are doing _exactly_ what Erimond wants.”

“What, fighting the Blight? Keeping the world safe from darkspawn?” Erimond roars, stepping forward before Clarel can speak; Asha’s eyes narrow down to slits. Even if Clarel mistakes the rapid slur of his words for an eagerness to do right, Asha knows better. She can taste the fear. “Who wouldn’t want that?”

“I think _you_ well know,” Asha spits--and the venom in her voice draws Clarel’s attention. The Warden-Commander’s eyes are dark and sharp, and there is pause in them when they look at her.

“If this is because the ritual requires blood sacrifice, then hate me for that if you must,” Erimond continues, as though she hadn’t spoken--hadn’t indirectly threatened him with the truth. He appeals to the noble purpose of the Wardens when he sweeps his arms out to them and finishes, “But do not hate the Wardens for doing their duty!”

Clarel takes the bait, her eyes hardening. She glowers at Asha, her voice crisp and matter-of-fact when she says, “We make the sacrifices that no one else will. Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them.”

“Do _not_ speak to me about sacrifices and pride!” Asha roars; a blast of heat ripples through the area, beads of sweat forming on her brow as her voice trembles with rage. She points her blade at Clarel, the motion accusing. “You gave your life to the Wardens for the sake of bettering this world--not for adulation! Ferelden’s Warden-Commander is of _my_ people--and she does her duty because it is what’s _honorable._ Not because she wanted _thanks_.” Venom drips from her voice when she finishes, “And slaughtering _your_ _own_ for the sake of preserving your life is not honorable--it is wretched.”

Stroud’s voice shakes with anger when he cries, “This sacrifice is not worthy of you, Clarel; your Tevinter ally binds the mages to Corypheus!”

Clarel’s self-assured expression drops like a stone. “Corypheus?” she whispers, disbelieving. “But he’s dead.”

“These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarel,” Erimond hisses, leaning so close that his lips practically skim her ear. His eyes are wild.

For a moment, Asha has hope. It flares to life in her heart, beating like a desperate thing in her blood when Clarel’s eyes slide shut and she brings a weary hand to her forehead. For just a moment, Asha believes that Clarel will think, will see the truth--

But when her eyes open, her gaze is hardened once again. “Bring it through!” she commands. Erimond turns, his smile practically demented in its glee.

“Inquisitor--” Cullen breathes beside her, his grip on his weapon tightening. She lays a hand on his arm, stilling him.

“Wait,” she whispers, watching. “Wait for my word.”

The mages pour their magic into the tear, and all the blood drains from Asha’s face when the rift spills open, a rippling and unsteady looking glass into the Fade. There is a creature within--massive, hulking. Waiting. Her grip on her staff tightens so hard that her hands tremble.

“Please!” Hawke pleads, taking a step forward; the Warden warriors tense at her approach, and she freezes. “I have seen more than my share of blood magic,” she gasps. ”It is never worth the cost!”

“I trained half of you myself!” Stroud calls; he sounds like a wounded man, and Asha cannot blame him. These were his people. “Do not make me kill you to stop this madness!”

The demon behind the rift lets out an unholy cry--shrill, piercing, making Asha wince at the sound. Erimond turns to Clarel. “Be ready with the ritual,” he says, eyes shining. “This demon is truly worthy of your strength.”

“Clarel!” Asha cries, her fury at the Warden-Commander replaced by desperation to end this before it is too late to turn back. Her breath hitches; there is a glimmer of doubt in Clarel’s eyes. Small, barely perceptible before she shutters her gaze--but it is there, and that is all she needs. “Warden-Commander Mahariel was of my people… But she is of yours, now," she admits, carefully. "She is a Grey Warden, and when the world doubted the Wardens and their purpose, she united the people! It was a Warden who stood atop the tower at Ostagar and lit the signal fire, it was a Warden who survived long enough to seek aid from people in an attempt to stop the Blight before it could truly begin. It was a Warden who took on an impossible task--and succeeded!”

Clarel squeezes her eyes shut, her hand balling into a fist. It shakes, ever so slightly--and Asha knows she is on the right path.

“Grey Wardens stand alone in their duty--and though it is a solitary task, it _is_ an noble one,” she continues, her voice softening. Steadying. Stirring something within them. “The world needs you. I would not be standing before you, as I am, if I didn’t know that. And I would not stand _against_ you if I didn’t know that you are being deceived into giving yourselves to the very thing that you swore to fight against. _Please._ See reason.”

Slowly, the warriors turn, looking to Clarel. They falter.

Erimond steps in front of Clarel, trying to block her from the sight of her men and their questioning gazes. “Clarel, we have come so far,” he hisses. “You are the only one who can do this!”

“Perhaps--” she begins, stumbling. She glances to Asha just for a moment--and whatever it is that the Warden-Commander sees in her gaze, it is enough. “Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges. To avoid more bloodshed.”

Erimond’s face changes then--twists into something vicious and ugly. “Or perhaps I should bring in a more reliable ally,” he spits, and then he is coming forward, stepping to the edge of the balcony and pounding the end of his staff into the stone beneath him. Red sparks curl up the length of the grip from every impact, and Asha’s stomach drops. “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor!” he shouts, his eyes blazing. “He sent me _this_ to welcome you!”

The wretched cry of Corypheus’ Blighted dragon pierces the sky, and Asha barely has enough time to fortify the barrier she has thrown over her people before Cullen’s powerful grip is on her arm, wrenching her body to his as he claps his shield over her back. All of the breath leaves her as the sound of massive wings beating close--too close--roars in her ears, and corrupted dragonfire splashes against the shield with enough force to send them tumbling to the ground.

Cullen grunts heavily from the impact, and Asha rolls off and struggles to her hands and knees, gasping. “Cullen--”

“I’m fine,” he bites out, rising, gaze searching her face. “You--”

“I’m fine,” she echoes, stumbling to her feet, relieved that he hadn’t been hurt. She frantically looks to the rest of her people--her party is slowly dragging themselves off the ground, the troops pulling each other up and Rylen looking to her and Cullen for instruction. Asha opens her mouth to speak, but whatever she might’ve said is cut off by the sound of lightning rending the air and Erimond howling in pain across the courtyard.

Asha whirls in time to see Clarel, face flushed with rage as she glares at the magister she has struck down. “Wait,” she hears him whisper, reaching a shaky hand out in a futile attempt to quell her fury--but this is the tipping point, and Clarel has realized the cost of her mistakes. She lets out a fearsome bellow, sweeping her staff out and firing off a massive burst of electricity at the dragon.

It reacts by breathing flames down upon her, sweeping from the tower it had alighted on and forcing her to leap away--providing an opening for Erimond to struggle to his feet and flee up the nearby staircase. Clarel clambers up from the ground, sparing a look to Asha, and then to her men.

“Help the Inquisitor!” she orders, just as the rift pulses; green streaks of energy shoot from it, the ground bubbling where their sickly light shines as malevolent spirits begin to manifest. Clarel is off running then, giving chase.

“Cullen,” Asha says, glancing to him even as she readies her staff, transforming it to a glaive once more. “Stay with the troops, help the Wardens contain this. I’m going after them.”

Cullen’s hand locks around her wrist, dwarfing it--Asha blinks up at him in shock, half-marvelling at how much larger he is than her. His brows are pinched, his gaze the closest thing to panicked that she has seen since--

Since Haven. “The dragon,” he says, voice tight.

Her heart hammers against her ribcage; she tugs her wrist through, just enough that she slips her fingers around his and squeezes. “I’ll be fine,” she says. Her eyes glimmer. “I’ll do what I have to, Commander.”

And then she is gone from his grasp, turning away and running across the main hall, deftly dodging, dancing around demons as her party follows. Cullen ignores the squeeze of his heart, fear wrapping itself around his chest like a steel band. “Inquisition!” he calls, readying his weapons and prompting his men to do the same. “Beat back the demons!”

A rallying cry rises up from the troops, and Cullen rushes forward, leading them headlong into battle.

 

XXX

 

A horrified scream rips itself from Asha’s throat as she watches the Blighted dragon crash heavily onto the broken bridge before her, snatching Warden-Commander Clarel up in its jaws with a sickening crunch; blood spatters the ground as it takes off. She turns, her breath shuddering from her as she watches it swoop onto the battlements, swinging its head back and forth before it flings Clarel onto the ground like a ragdoll. She lets out a weak gurgle as she twitches, slowly rolling onto her stomach.

When the dragon begins to slink down the walls, steadily prowling towards her and her party--Asha realizes that she’s made a grave mistake in putting her back to the edge of the bridge. Far below, the abyss gapes. There is nowhere to go but back, or forward--into the bloody maw of the dragon.

It lands on the bridge with a dangerous rumble, the stones shaking beneath her from the weight of it. Asha swallows hard, glances past it to the archway that they’d come through--

Her breath chokes off in her throat when she realizes that Cullen is standing there, sword readied as he stares at the dragon. He’d followed them. He glances at her--their eyes lock, and she jerks her head. _‘Don’t,’_ she thinks desperately; he would be a fool to try anything when no men stand behind him.

Clarel chokes out something unintelligible, blood gushing from her mouth as she crawls on her belly and then drops, her arms giving out from underneath her. She turns onto her back, watching the dragon as it passes over her. Asha takes one step back, and then another, the winds of the Approach howling at her back.

She stiffens when she sees Clarel’s hand shoot up, a massive burst of electricity searing its underbelly as it charges towards them. The scent of lightning stings her nostrils as she shouts, calling everyone to dive to the side as the dragon stumbles, shrieking, clawing pointlessly at the bridge for purchase before it tumbles off the edge.

The stone rumbles ominously beneath Asha’s body--and then a terrifying crack splits the air, and Asha realizes that the bridge is giving out from underneath them. “ _Run!_ ” she cries, scrambling to her feet. Her party is beside her, all of them clambering to safety--and then she hears stone crumble, followed by the sound of Stroud crying out.

Asha turns back, races to the edge without a second thought; Stroud claps a hand around her extended arm, and she tugs with all her might, pulling him up to safety. But the bridge still gives way; Asha feels a fierce grip on her back, turns to see Hawke beside her, pulling the both of them to sprint forward just as the ledge that they’d been standing on falls into the nothingness below.

Asha gasps, terror seizing her lungs as the bridge continues to collapse; her party is ahead, still moving, nearly onto solid ground where Cullen waits, hands extended, but then--

Cassandra is the one who looks beside her and realizes that Asha isn’t there. Cassandra is the one who looks back, sees her with Hawke and Stroud, fallen far behind. Cassandra is the one who cries out to her, steps forward, just as the section of bridge between her and Asha begins to split.

“Cassandra, turn back!” Asha orders, but Cassandra isn’t _listening_ \--she is running forward, hands extended, reaching for a goal that she can’t get to. And then the others are turning, seeing Asha stumble to her knees, hands on the ground, seeing her unable to get up--and they too begin to run to her. “ _Turn back!!_ ” she screams.

But they aren’t listening.

They would sacrifice themselves for her--and once again, Asha will not let them.

The stone quakes, cracking; Asha sees them begin to slide, and she releases her grip on the ground and lifts her palms to them. Drawing from every ounce of willpower in her body, Asha feels the shock of her magic pulsing through her before an uncontrollable burst of force rockets from her palms. She hears Cassandra grunt, watches as they are all picked up and blown back onto solid ground like leaves in the wind, weightless against her power.

Someone screams her name as the blast she’d expelled blows her back, flinging her off of the edge of the bridge and into free fall. _‘I will not be afraid,’_ Asha thinks, no breath in her lungs with which to cry out as she flails, falls headfirst. _‘I will not be afraid!’_

Far below, a massive, acidic seam of light stretches along the abyss as she hurtles towards it. Asha extends her hand, reaches out to it as the Anchor flares to life; she digs her magic into the invisible stitches, grabs them, and tears the Veil apart.

The rift bursts open and swallows her, Hawke and Stroud tumbling in after. And then it shuts, the stitches mended and the seam made whole once again, leaving nothing but darkness when the people she has left behind peek over the broken edge of the bridge to look.

She is lost to them. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters are 0% fucking around. Up next: what Asha fears most.


	15. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “F-Forgive me,” Asha stutters, her hands trembling violently. Heat pricks at the corners of her eyes, and she furiously swipes at them. “Smaller fear demons,” she mutters. “Feeding on what scraps the Nightmare leaves for them.”
> 
> “And they take the form of spiders,” Hawke murmurs, though she too sounds a bit shaken. “Something so many fear.”
> 
> Asha blinks, turning to her. “You saw spiders?” she whispers, eyes haunted. She would give anything for the sight of spiders.
> 
> Hawke frowns, and her tone is gentle when she asks, “You didn’t?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, a long time coming. Kind of gory and horror-y in places.
> 
> Remember Ellana?

_"What I hold in these frightened hands of mine_   
_is a sword of handpicked flowers."_   
**\-- 'Magia' by Kalafina, translated**

* * *

 

 _“_ _Shit,"_ Varric whispers, and numbly, Cullen thinks that he’s never agreed with anything the dwarf has ever said before half as much as he does now.

“There was a rift,” Cassandra gasps, fists trembling on the stone as she stares over the edge, into the inky abyss below. “It was there--and now it is gone.”

“She fell through,” Blackwall murmurs, his face ghost-pale. “And closed it behind her.”

Cullen can’t speak, can hardly think past the violent pounding against his temples; he is choking, strangled by the fear, the unknowing, the acrid taste of _failure_ raising bile in the back of his throat. Again. He had given her his word--his _vow--_ and it had happened again.

She is gone somewhere nobody can follow. “ _Fuck_ ,” he spits, nearly vibrating with rage, and everyone’s alarmed gaze falls on him.

Cassandra’s is the most concerned of all; she rises, unsteadily, to her feet. “Commander,” she says, warningly--and Cullen realizes then how utterly demented he must look, if she’s making that sort of face at him.

He lets out a breath that’s half a snarl, turning away from them, jaw tightly clenched. His gut roils, breath coming hot and quick as his hands shake. His composure is in tatters. Asha is gone, dropped into the Fade. The Warden-Commander is dead, glassy-eyed and unmoving on the ground before them. Erimond--

“Where is the magister?” he growls, sounding practically inhuman. The others start, blinking as if waking from a daze and looking to where the man had been, felled by Clarel’s spell only mere minutes before. He is not there any longer.

“Aw, _shit_ ,” Varric says again, exasperated.

Cullen draws his sword and starts towards the archway, Cassandra hot on his heels. She opens her mouth, likely meaning to warn him to mind himself even though he can see the very same fear he feels reflected in her eyes--but he cuts her off with a brusque, “We capture him alive. Those were her orders.”

“She--” Cassandra begins, faltering as she glances over her shoulder to the broken bridge. She swallows hard, unsheathing her sword as well. “She has walked out of the Fade before.”

“I know,” he says flatly. Her reassurance rings hollow. There are only so many lucky chances that a person can have. Even her. And he hates that he falters, now--hates that he feels the crushing weight of despair upon him, because he knows she wouldn’t want this, wouldn’t want them to be broken about this.

 _“I’ll do what I have to, Commander,”_ her words ring in his head, far more mocking through the lens of his own disappointment in himself. He would almost laugh if it weren’t so damn terrible. He sinks his teeth into the meat of his lower lip, pausing at the top of the stairs. Below, towards the main hall, he can hear faint sounds of battle--far more muted than it had been before they’d gotten the demons contained enough for him to race after Asha and her party.

“The men are holding the main hall,” Cullen says then, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of them. Even if he is reeling, he is still a commander. “That rift is never going to close without Asha. Even with--” His breath catches then, throat tight. “--that _thing_ on the other side, it’s all we have. Erimond is not leaving this fortress.” His eyes glitter with something little more than sheer malice as he thinks of the vile magister and says, “We take him alive, and then we wait at the rift.”

“For how long, Commander?” Cassandra asks, softly.

“As long as it takes for her to walk out of it,” he says, without hesitation. Nobody argues. He prays that whatever has kept Asha alive for as long as she has been, through every unimaginable circumstance, whether it really is divine providence or just twisted luck--

Cullen prays that there is enough left for her to come back to them.

 

XXX

 

Ironically, it is the demons she knows that Asha fears the least. Wading through too-dark emerald waters that leave a sick chill in her bones, amidst crumbling ruins that nobody was ever meant to see, she charges towards them without hesitation. She knows them. She can handle them.

But the Nightmare that rules this realm in the Fade is not a demon that she knows. And yet, it seems to know her. It seems to know them all, picking at their minds, searching for what will make them shake. Make them falter. It speaks in Corypheus’ booming voice, rumbling over them like a storm, everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Did you think you mattered, Hawke?” it sneers, and Asha feels Hawke stiffen beside her. “Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city--how could you expect to strike down a _god_?”

“Keep moving,” Asha hisses, refusing to stop. She must keep walking, must keep going forward. But her skin crawls when the Nightmare laughs.

“Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about.”

Hawke lets out a bitter huff of laughter, though it’s not entirely steady. “Of course,” she murmurs. “A fear demon would know where to hurt us most. We must ignore it,” she says, but Asha can see the lines of stress forming at the corners of her eyes, the tight press of her lips as she struggles to heed her own advice.

But then, it happens. They come to a rocky enclosure, the walls shimmering and the air thick. Asha freezes, motioning for Stroud and Hawke to come to a stop beside her. “Something’s here,” she whispers.

“More demons?” Stroud asks, but Asha frowns, the skin between her brows puckering.

“Something like that,” she says. The fine hairs on the back of her neck and her arms stand on end, and dread curls through her insides. She grips her staff so hard the metalwork leaves biting marks on her palms.

Something drops to the ground from high above, and then another follows; Asha shrieks, eyes going wide in horror as she stares at the two, little headless bodies clambering up from the ground and shuffling towards her. Stomach heaving, she swings her staff out at one, sending a barrage of crackling energy to fry it into nothing but charred flesh; beside her, Hawke eliminates the other one.

“F-Forgive me,” Asha stutters, her hands trembling violently. Heat pricks at the corners of her eyes, and she furiously swipes at them. “Smaller fear demons,” she mutters. “Feeding on what scraps the Nightmare leaves for them.”

“And they take the form of spiders,” Hawke murmurs, though she too sounds a bit shaken. “Something so many fear.”

Asha blinks, turning to her. “You saw spiders?” she whispers, eyes haunted. She would give anything for the sight of spiders.

Hawke frowns, and her tone is gentle when she asks, “You didn’t?”

“I saw--” she begins, and her words die in her throat when she looks back. Little bodies--identical, just children, girls without their heads. Blood-spattered robes on their small frames. Asha’s eyes begin to water once more, though she swallows the terror and revulsion and forces herself to remain steady. “Something else,” she finishes, slowly shuffling forward once more. “The Nightmare is goading us. Tricking us into seeing something that would… that would frighten us the most.”

Eventually, the walls widen around her, and they come to an open area at last; Asha lets out a soft huff of relief--the strangest sensation--when she sees a familiar figure waiting ahead.

“The Nightmare is closer now,” the spirit of Divine Justinia murmurs, her voice gentle. Her pale eyes remain fixed on Asha’s face as she and her companions approach. “It knows you seek escape--and that you are afraid. With each moment, it grows stronger.”

In the empty space behind her, viridescent energy flares to life, pale shadows of memory manifesting before them. Asha draws a bracing breath, thinking of what little she has already managed to steal back from the Nightmare. She can still feel the phantom burn in her marked palm, as though her hand was being seared clean off, when she recalled just how she had received the Anchor.

Not divine providence. Not a blessing from Andraste. Not anything that any of the Chantry devout had been claiming about her since she awoke in Haven after sealing the temple’s rift. It had been as she’d known all along--the Anchor was not the Maker nor Andraste’s doing.

It had been chance. Terrible chance. She’d been in the right place, arguably at the right time. Snatched the elven orb that Corypheus had been using to steal the Divine’s life force--destabilized it and been caught in the explosion, transported to the Fade as the temple fell and hundreds died on the mountaintop.

Asha shudders, reaching out for these next memories. She feels them come to her, wisps snaking through the stifling air to wrap themselves around her; she gasps, feeling her head throb, a little pinpoint of pain in her skull growing white-hot, radiating outward until it engulfs her and makes her vision go white.

Faint voices echo--and then true sound and sight greets her as she relives the moment that she’d lost memory of months ago.

_The air is thick with smoke, she can’t breathe, but she has no choice to run as the skittering of massive creatures behind her continues to close in. She throws herself at the steep slope that rises before her, climbing rapidly for the voice that calls to her._

_“The demons!” Divine Justinia warns, panicked, reaching out to her from above._

_Asha gasps, her lungs burning as she scales the slick rock; her palms sting, but she can’t give up. She can’t--she has to make it to the top. She has to live. She has to go home. Close, she reaches desperately for the pale, dainty hand stretched out to her, straining as light bursts from her palm and the mark burns. Asha cries out, and her hand clamps around Justinia’s so tightly she must surely be hurting her._

_But Justinia doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter as she tugs Asha up, over the edge; in the distance lies the rippling portal of the rift, the way out. Justinia’s hands are upon her shoulders, tugging, pushing her forward as they nearly stumble. The demons are close behind, following as they begin to run._

_“Keep going!” Asha cries, voice shrill, thin and terrified. The closer she gets to the rift, the more her arm stings, until it feels as though it’s been lit aflame. They are almost there, and then--_

_Divine Justinia shouts, stumbling as a demon catches the hem of her robes; Asha whirls around just in time to see her go down hard, screaming, her hands scrabbling at the ground for a grip that she can’t get. Asha’s heart leaps into her throat--this woman is the Chantry’s leader, the one who called for the Conclave in one final attempt at peace before the Mage-Templar war might truly tear the world apart. She cannot let her die._

_Asha leaps forward with a wild shout, her hands closing around Justinia’s wrists; she digs her feet into the ground, gritting her teeth, tears of effort prickling at the corners of her eyes. But the demons are strong, and they are many--their strength is more than hers, and she slides inexorably forward to the edge once again._

_Justinia’s eyes lock onto hers--and despite the situation that they are in, it is a solitary, profound moment. A Dalish mage, and the Andrastian human who sits on the Sunburst Throne. But now, they are just two women trying to survive. Justinia’s hands are those of a woman who has lived a long life, time-weathered and the skin paper thin--but there is an unexpected strength in their grip as she squeezes Asha’s hands._

_Asha stiffens, gives one great tug. “No,” she chokes, sounding terribly like a child--frightened. Lost._

_But Justinia’s gaze is resolute. “Go,” she whispers._

_And then she lets go. It is Asha who screams as she drops over the edge, out of sight--taken by the demons. Asha claps a hand over her mouth, tastes salt on her lips as her stomach heaves and she stumbles back. She can’t look, she can’t, she can’t. A terrible sob escapes her as she turns and runs. Her vision blurs, and green light is all she can see when she throws herself through the rift--right before she falls, hits the ground hard, and sees nothing more._

When Asha’s senses return to her, she realizes that she is on her hands and knees, head bowed. She can see her reflection in the puddle that she has sunk into; her face is a rictus of grief, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. Hawke and Stroud are standing over her, concerned--but when Asha raises her head, it is Justinia who she looks at.

“It was you,” she whispers brokenly. Justinia--or rather, her spirit--gives her a gentle look, waiting. Asha takes a shuddering breath, slowly rising to her feet. “Everyone thought… thought it was Andraste sending me from the Fade. I knew it wasn’t, but… I didn’t know it was the Divine behind me. The demons… there were so many, and then you… _she_ died.”

Her pale eyes slide shut, and she bows her head for a moment. Her expression is peaceful, utterly untroubled when she murmurs, “Yes.”

Stroud releases a shaken breath. “So this creature is simply a spirit,” he says.

Hawke glances sidelong at him, her mouth twisting. “I think we all knew that was the case,” she bites out.

“I am sorry if I disappoint you,” the spirit says softly, her hands folded neatly before her. Hawke pauses, shame crossing her face at the sincerity with which she speaks.

Asha’s breath catches in her throat when the spirit’s eyes begin to glow--and then her whole body is wreathed in blinding, golden light. She rises through the air, shedding the visage of the woman who had been the Divine. “Are you… are you her?” she asks, thinking of stories of those who cross through the Veil, but never truly move beyond. “Her soul?”

“If that is the story you wish to tell, it is not a bad one,” the spirit replies enigmatically. There is a touch of fondness to her tone, even though she gives no true answer.

Hawke’s voice, however, is heated when she says, “What we do know is that the mortal Divine perished at the temple, thanks to the Grey Wardens.”

Stroud rounds on her. “As I said, the Grey Wardens responsible for that crime were under the control of Corypheus! We can discuss this further once we return to Adamant.”

“Oh yes,” Hawke breathes, taking a step towards Stroud. “Adamant, where the Inquisition faces an army of demons raised by the Wardens!”

“How dare you judge us,” Stroud hisses. “It was _you_ who tore Kirkwall apart and started the mage rebellion!”

“To protect innocent mages--not _madmen_ drunk on blood magic!”

 _“Enough!”_ Asha roars, eyes blazing as the pair of them startle and step apart, turning to her. Her breath comes quick, heat flickering under her skin as she glowers at the both of them, dried tear tracks on her cheeks. Her voice is little more than a snarl of disgust when she adds, “This bickering gets us nowhere, and it can certainly wait until we are out of danger!”

Their faces fall--but they are looking past her, and Hawke sounds shell-shocked when she whispers, “Inquisitor.”

Asha turns, and all the blood drains from her face when she sees the children, headless and dressed in robes as they crawl down the rocks, towards them. “The Nightmare has found us,” the spirit says, rising ever higher into the air--and then, she winks out of existence. A ways down the path, she reappears, beckoning. But the demons block the way.

“Ready yourselves,” Stroud says, unsheathing his sword.

“I’m with you,” Hawke says, her staff held tightly in hand.

Asha swallows the terror, the tempest within her, closing her eyes and raising her staff high. She brings it down with great force, sending electric bursts spiraling through the air and striking the little bodies. The stench of burnt flesh is powerful--terrible, makes her want to scream. She bites back the urge, and then opens her eyes and fights with her companions until not a single minor Fear is left.

They move on, then--following the glowing spirit as she leads them through the winding paths of the Fade. Asha does not fear her. She thinks of Solas then--of the way that he’d spoken of the spirits he’d encountered in the Fade in his dreams. Wisdom, Purpose, playful wisps that led him to treasures and gentle beings that led village girls to sweet, young loves.

Asha trusts this spirit, whether it is Divine Justinia or not. It is kind, a beacon in the dark. Its presence soothes her, even if the others remain wary of it as they trail behind her.

But even this benevolent spirit is not enough to beat back the despair that rises within her when the Nightmare speaks again. This time, the voice is different. It is small, soft--that of a little girl, echoing all around them when it says, “Asha’revas. Ma banal las halamshir var vhen, harellan.”

Asha thinks she might vomit. And then, when they come across the little graveyard full of fears, she does, doubling over and retching at the sight of the tombstone marked with her name on it. A statue rises from the site--a girl wearing loose robes and holding a staff that is just a bit too big to fit comfortably in her hands. It, too, lacks a head.

 _‘Failure,'_ reads the inscription in the stone.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers raggedly, wiping the bile from her chin.

“It’s alright,” Hawke murmurs soothingly. A beat passes, and then she adds, “As far as fears go, it’s a noble one to have.”

Asha says nothing, fighting back tears as they turn away and walk on. She hadn’t been talking to Hawke.

The spirit leads them onward, carefully, through tunnels of jagged rock. Red lyrium nodes jut out from the walls, filling her mind with their unnatural keen. And the further they move, the more that Asha becomes aware of a steadily growing, crushing presence within her chest. It spreads through her, makes her skin crawl and her hands tremble, makes it hard for her to draw breath.

“We’re getting close to it,” she whispers, knowing that the fear is the Nightmare’s work. But beyond the Nightmare will be the rift--the way out. No matter what waits, she must confront it. She cannot let it break her.

“You must get through the rift, Inquisitor,” the spirit intones. “Get through, and then slam it closed with all your strength. That will banish the army of demons and exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade.”

Eventually, the red glow of the lyrium that shouldn’t exist begins to dim--and a familiar, acidic light shines over the stone. “The rift,” Hawke whispers--and then a sharp gasp escapes her.

Asha’s staff nearly slips from her grip, eyes going wide as the chill of dread freezes her breath in her lungs. The massive creature that she’d seen in Adamant, lurking on the other side, is here before her now. In the flesh, rotting, with what seems like millions and millions of milky eyes, rolling, searching for her. Its true body, ironically, is a spider. A giant beast of one, its fangs clicking ominously. And beneath it--

“Is that a girl?” Stroud whispers, unsure if he is hallucinating the little figure or not.

Asha trembles, tears of shame beading at the corners of her eyes even as she continues to walk forward. She must walk, she must face it. Her greatest shame. Her greatest fear. Her greatest failure, here for everyone to see.

But before she can say anything, there is a gentle hand on her shoulder, touch feather-light before it fades as the spirit of the Divine pushes forward. She rises, her ethereal body fracturing, golden light spilling, spiraling from her as she surges to meet the Nightmare. “If you would, please tell Leliana, ‘I am sorry. I failed you, too.’”

Asha throws a hand over her eyes when the light bursts, radiating outward and engulfing her vision in holy fire, swallowing the Nightmare whole until it vanishes entirely. She is left blinking, eyes burning in the aftermath. And then her heart stutters in her chest when she realizes that they are not alone.

The little girl still stands there, a serene smile on her face. She sways back and forth, tiny hands clutched around the grip of her oak staff. Her dark braids rustle in a breeze that isn’t really there, the glittering stone beads threaded throughout clicking together with the motion. Her ears, long and slender, peek out from in between.

But her eyes. Her eyes are flinty, boring right through to the heart of her as she stares. Asha has never seen a look so full of hatred, and she knows that she deserves it.

“Ellana,” she whispers brokenly.

“Lethallan,” Ellana responds, her voice high and sugary sweet. So young. Her smile turns, then, twists into a terrible grin with teeth bared. Blood drips from her mouth, running down her chin. “Come to take what’s mine again?”

“Stop,” Asha gasps, twirling her staff and squeezing her eyes shut for the briefest moment. Her staff vibrates in her hands, the otherworldly golden blade rising from the end. “You aren’t her--you have no power over me.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ellana snarls, and her voice changes, deepens to something guttural and ugly--right before she sweeps her staff in a wide arc, and a barrier slams down around them, sealing them away from the others. Asha whirls, searching and seeing lesser fears crawl up out of the ground and lunge for Hawke and Stroud. “They’ll keep,” Ellana whispers, eyes glittering. “But you are _mine_.”

The first blast of cold strikes her between the ribs, catching her unaware with its power and speed; Asha grunts, dispels the magic even as her heart seizes. She spits an oath, whirls and casts a roaring inferno--but Ellana dances out of its path like it’s nothing. She is too small, too quick--and too unnaturally powerful, far more so than the real Ellana had been when she was alive.

It’s a deliberate match, Asha knows. She realizes it when they rush at each other, trading hard strikes and firing spells one after another, on and on until her body screams, mana rapidly depleting faster than she can recover it. The Nightmare knows her from her fear--knows just what she is capable of and how to turn that power against her. Even as the head of her staff cracks against Ellana’s face, sending her reeling back, she retaliates with a bolt of energy that burns a hole through her shoulder, makes her shriek.

Ellana whips her gaze up, snarling, “Nah din’an sahlin! As mine did for me, when _you_ failed!”

“I didn’t know!” Asha hisses, welcoming the fierce pain that burns through her, paying no mind to the blood that drips to the ground.

“You _knew_ ,” Ellana spits, and she flickers out of existence for a brief moment before phasing away. When she reappears, she is different--morphing, growing, face and body rippling as she changes, becomes older. No longer a child, a young woman--Mythal’s vallaslin blooming on her face. Everything that she would have been, had she been able to grow up.

She looks so much like Keeper Deshanna that it makes Asha falter--and that is what this cruel mockery of her past wants, surging forward and sending blades of frost to slice at her, laughing dementedly.

Asha twirls, ducks through the blows and charges, feeling lightning spark on her tongue, cracking in the air. A massive bolt strikes, shock radiating out and engulfing Ellana. She grunts, spine arching, body locking as the current runs through.

“You have no power over me,” Asha whispers shakily, seizing her opportunity. She rushes forward, jabbing the spirit blade of her staff up between Ellana’s ribs; it sinks into her flesh with surprising, horrifying ease as this aspect of the Nightmare screams. She draws back, drives the blade in again and again until ichor is pouring out, gushing from the body. Every time, she whispers, “You have no power over me. You have no power over me!”

Ellana stumbles, sinks to a knee even as her hands clasp the front of Asha’s Keeper robes just before the next blow falls. Her fingers are bony and cold, sticky with blood. Asha swallows hard, raises her blade high--and then she freezes. Falters. A shudder wracks her body.

Ellana grins. “You can’t do it, can you?” she hisses, insidious. Asha’s hands shake, eyes slowly beginning to water as the terror in the back of her throat, in the back of her mind, rises to a fever pitch.

For a moment, everything changes. The jutting, jagged spires of the Fade and its stifling air are replaced in her mind’s eye with the cool air of the forest, bright sunlight shining dappled through the verdant canopy of the trees above. The ground is soft earth beneath her feet, blades of dewy grass dotted with little wildflowers tickling as a gentle breeze rushes through.

But then Asha blinks, and everything is the same. The Fade is the Fade--the Nightmare’s lair in front of her, desolate and full of despair to slake its thirst for terror. Her breath comes thick, uneasy. There is no grass, no flowers, no forest, no bright light save for the viridescent rift rippling beyond.

And this is not Ellana. She has changed again, face morphing, hair unbinding and beads clattering to the ground. Scars stretch across the slope of her jaw, her eyes lighten, turn like the tips of royal elfroot--and Asha is staring at a reflection of herself.

And that is its final, fatal mistake. Because when she sees her own image kneeling at her feet, it is so terribly easy to shut her eyes and swing down, to bring the blade across the neck and cleave the head from the body in one stroke, full of all her strength. All of her hate--hatred for herself, for her costly mistake, for her greatest failure.

The barrier falls when the body does--and Asha watches as its false appearance dispels, revealing its true self. Waxy skin and a skeletal frame, spindly spider’s legs erupting from its spine. It smells like death.

Asha feels strong hands on her arms, steadying her when her legs threaten to give out from underneath her. She gasps, relying on Hawke and Stroud to help her forward. “Thank you,” she mumbles, teeth chattering.

“You’re alright,” Hawke grunts, limping slightly; there’s a long streak of claw marks down the side of one leg.

“There is the rift,” Stroud says, quickening their pace.

But then an ominous rumble vibrates in the air, shaking the stone beneath their feet. Asha’s heart sinks, despair curling its unforgiving claws about her and gripping tight, so tight it might never let go. The main body of the Nightmare slowly reappears, looming over them, blocking their path. It bleeds the hope from their body, and for one terrible moment, Asha believes that this is truly the end.

But then Hawke’s grip tightens around her before she lets go, fingers flexing around her staff and fire in her eyes when she declares, “Go. I’ll cover you.”

Asha sways when Stroud releases her, shaking his head. “No,” he says. He swallows hard and continues, “You were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must--”

“A Warden must help them rebuild!” Hawke fires back. “That’s _your_ job!” And then her pale-eyed gaze turns to Asha; the sheer resolution she sees within makes her shake, down to her very soul. “Corypheus is mine, Inquisitor,” she breathes, and the hum of wild magic slowly begins to fill the air. “ _Please_.”

Asha’s vision blurs, and shame fills her heart when she can’t fight back the tears. “Hawke, no,” she whispers shakily. She jerks her head--she can’t make this choice--who is she to make this choice? Who is she, to tell somebody that they should die? The Nightmare was right--this should never have been hers. Nothing should have been hers.

Hawke’s grip on her hand is fierce, steady. There is no tremor--only iron-hearted certainty. Marian Hawke stands tall and proud, willing Asha to meet her gaze. “Listen to me,” she breathes, words tumbling rapidfire as the Nightmare stalks towards them. “I know what I’m doing. Someone once--” She falters for a moment, wetting dry lips as her gaze flicks, wide-eyed, to the approaching demon. But she remains sure when she finishes, “Someone once told me to watch for this--the moment when everything falls into the abyss. And they told me not to fear it when it happened. To leap.”

Asha’s breath shudders from her. “Hawke,” she whispers once more--but this time, there is a finality in her tone. An acceptance.

Hawke’s eyes brighten. “This is me leaping,” she says, releasing Asha’s hand. “Say goodbye to Varric for me,” she says, and then she is turning, running, not even a barrier rippling around her as she charges forward with a wild cry and swings out.

Asha watches numbly as Stroud drags her forward, past the Nightmare and to the rift. She stumbles, lets the Warden go through--and then she turns back just in time to see Hawke rend a rotting appendage from its body. The Nightmare screeches, shuddering.

“Hawke!” she cries. “Falon’Din enasal enaste!”

The smile that Hawke gives her is so bright that it makes her ache. “Go, Inquisitor! Your people need you.”

Asha’s voice breaks when she calls, “Forgive me.”

Hawke cleaves another piece of the Nightmare away, laughing, darting through its legs like this is nothing more than a great game. “What for?”

“For failing you,” she sobs, salt spilling down her cheeks. The rift quivers, its edges shimmering as it tries to draw her through, making her mark flare to life.

“The only way you’ll fail me is if you don’t get through that rift right now!” Hawke replies, sending sparks zinging through the air, frying the many eyes of the demon. She pants, sweat beading on her forehead, her grin downright wolfish. “Dareth shiral. That’s what you say, right?”

Asha swallows hard, taking one step back, and then another. The seams of the rift stretch out, wreathing her, wrapping around her body to welcome her. “Dareth shiral, Hawke,” she says.

And then she turns, stepping through to the other side. Hawke’s breathless laughter follows her, echoing for a moment before fading into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: things are broken, in the aftermath.
> 
> Elvhen translations:  
> "Ma banal las halamshir var vhen, harellan." - Lit. You do nothing to further our people, traitor to your own kin. Essentially, 'You have abandoned us, traitor.'  
> "Nah din'an sahlin!" - Your death has come!  
> "Falon'Din enasal enaste!" - Falon'Din's blessings upon you, a prayer for those who will be guided into the Beyond.


	16. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry,” she whispers, feeling foolish for the platitude but unable to stop herself from saying it.
> 
> Varric surprises her, though, shaking his head. “No,” he murmurs. “If I know Hawke, and I… I did. I know it had to have been her choice.” He pauses for a moment, hesitates before he asks, “How are you holding up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chap might be a little harsh; reliving trauma is damaging, and Asha really feels that. For anyone who needs a warning, there's a little bit of emotional/psychological manipulation in this, some unkind things, to say the least. Tough to write, but I'm happy with how it turned out. And remember: it's going to be okay in the end.

_"They have stolen the heart from inside you,_   
_but this does not define you._   
_This is not who you are._   
_You know who you are."_   
**\-- 'Know Who You Are' sung by Auli'i Cravalho**

* * *

 

Asha refuses to stand on ceremony that first morning when they all return to Skyhold. Leliana and Josephine are waiting on the upper landing of Skyhold’s steps, and Asha spares them half a glance and a curt, “Judgement. Now,” before striding into the main hall.

By the time that Asha, fully-armored, seats herself on the the throne, Cullen is already standing at attention at her right-hand side, silent. His eyes are bloodshot and shadowed, much like her own. Leliana steps onto the dais and gives the two of them a long look. Carefully, she murmurs, “Perhaps we should postpone our council.”

Asha’s voice is as flat as her gaze when she asks, “Why would we do that?”

Leliana’s mouth twists; the dark moods she is accustomed to being readily prepared to field are only ever Cullen’s, on his worst days when his skin is pale and his brow pinched. Another cursory glance his way tells her that today will indeed be one of those days. But she is also concerned for Asha, who looks to the great doors with a glassy stare, her staff dangling almost carelessly from her grip.

“I can only imagine how trying Adamant must have been,” Leliana says after a long silence, giving her a pointed look. “Josephine and I have already seen the preliminary reports. The full ones will be in our hands to look over well before the day’s end, in any case. We can spare an evening before we meet to speak of it, and our future plans.”

Asha slowly tips her head, glancing sidelong at Leliana. “My exiling the Grey Wardens from Orlais will have consequences. We need not meet for long, but we should at least discuss that today.”

“I agree,” Cullen murmurs, voice a bit uneven. He and Asha glance to each other then--and for only a brief moment, their expressions soften as they look at each other, postures relaxing ever so slightly.

It does not escape Leliana’s notice. Though she says nothing--now is certainly not the time to pry into whatever has been steadily building between the commander of the Inquisition and its leader for months--a small part of Leliana is relieved. At least _that_ was normal, even if many other things have changed in the wake of their assault on Adamant. “As you wish, Inquisitor,” she murmurs, nodding and stepping away.

Asha watches as the main hall steadily begins to fill, Skyhold’s people having heard of her return and the abrupt call to sit in judgment. Josephine passes through the entryway, then, a sheet of paper in hand and her steps quick and light as she makes her way to the dais. “Ready, Josephine?” she murmurs.

Josephine gives her a lingering look, brows furrowed in concern, but she nods and replies, “Yes, Your Worship. They are bringing him now.”

The hall falls silent as the rattle of chains begins to sound, drawing closer and closer until Asha sees two soldiers crest the steps to the entrance, Erimond bound and dragged between them. His gaze finds her immediately, an ugly sneer on his wretched face as he is brought to stand before her. Asha’s grip flexes on her staff--it takes every ounce of willpower she possesses to tamp down the force of her sheer hatred for this man. She draws a long breath, willing her blood to cool--but the strength of her emotions makes frost crackle on the pads of her fingers.

“I submit Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, who remains loyal to Corypheus,” Josephine says, her steady voice echoing off the stone walls. “Commander Cullen captured him alive, though he offered extreme resistance--likely because there are many who would see him lose his head, in more colorful terms.” Her voice softens, then, as she spares a glance to Asha. “To say nothing of justice you might personally require, for what was suffered in the Fade.”

“I must admit,” Asha begins, as nonchalantly as she can manage. “It is a bit of a struggle to understand just how any sentence I would pass will make up for any of what happened at Adamant.”

Erimond snorts, scowling at her. “I recognize none of this proceeding,” he says, pompous even in chains. “You have no authority to judge me.”

“On the contrary,” Josephine interjects sharply. “By the time you passed through Skyhold’s gates, many officials had long since communicated that they will defer to the Inquisitor on this matter.”

“Because they _fear,_ ” Erimond hisses. “Not just Corypheus--but Tevinter, rightful ruler of every piece of ground you’ve trod in your pathetic life.

Asha’s eyes narrow down to slits, her jaw clenching as she swallows a spiteful retort--that much of the land belonged to her people long before Tevinter ever stole it away. But this is not about her, and she will not lose control.

Erimond’s voice is near-breathless with veneration when he continues, “I served a living _god_. Bring down your blades and free me from the physical--glory awaits me.”

The thin crackle of frost forming on the arm of the throne, where her free hand rests, is only just audible enough for Cullen to hear, his head turning slightly in her direction. Asha resists the urge to look at him; whatever reassurance from her that he might seek, she cannot give it, and she cannot seek any in return. The fury that had simmered beneath the surface of her skin is gone now, replaced entirely by a calm that is almost dangerous in the way that it settles over her, hardens her gaze, hardens her heart.

She will have him go to his death. But he will not go cool and composed, a martyr for his fellow Venatori to revere for his deeds. No.

Asha will make him know true fear, as she had.

“You are the worst of us,” she intones, voice soft. Almost serene. “The damage you have done is beyond all reckoning.” She rises slowly, then, a chill radiating from her; no one else speaks, no one looks away as she stands tall, looking down upon Erimond. “Your false god is not here to save you. And you will have no glory. No blade will free you. Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium,” she lilts, tongue curling around the name with nothing but mockery dripping from the words. “I sentence you to a fate far worse than death. _Tranquility_.”

The uproar is immediate; dozens and dozens in the crowd cry out, opposing, and even the guards who immediately rush to restrain Erimond as he jerks back look uneasy, to say the least. Josephine gasps her name, all formality dropped in shock, a hand clapped to her mouth as her face pales. Asha glances over her shoulder.

Cullen’s eyes have gone impossibly wide, utter horror painting his features. Asha shuts her eyes and turns away, stomach churning. He has never looked at her like that before. As though she is someone terrifying.

In the midst of the din, it takes her a moment to realize that Erimond is screaming; Asha turns, watching as the guards struggle to drag him away from the dais. “You cannot!” he howls, writhing in their grasp, legs kicking out furiously from underneath him in a useless attempt to escape. “I am a lord, you pissants! I will not lose myself!” He snarls, thrashes in their grip like a wild animal--but when they begin to wrest control, to pull him steadily away towards the doors, that is when all pretenses of grandeur melt away from his face. His breath wheezes from him in high, thin pants--and then he screams, crying out like prey caught in a trap from which there is no way out. “Please! No, no--anything! Anything but this! _Please!_ ”

Everyone is startled into silence when Asha’s hand flies up, and she manipulates the great doors to slam shut with a thunderous boom. The guards freeze, glancing up at her nervously. Erimond slumps to the ground, pathetically mumbling pleas, a sheen of sweat on his brow and his eyes fever-bright with terror.

Slowly, Asha walks forward. One quiet step after another, down the dais, down towards him. The end of her staff taps lightly against the stone floor, the only sound in the hall save for Erimond’s panicked utterances. And even those fall silent when Asha stands above him. A frisson of unease runs through the hall as she looks down at him unfeelingly. “Are you begging?” she whispers, pure venom in her voice. She arches a brow. “For your soul?”

Erimond trembles, his senses lost. “Please,” he shudders, curled feebly at her feet. “Please.”

Asha thinks then, as she has many times every day since, of the Fade. Of Ellana. Of Hawke, who had been left behind--and Varric who hadn’t spoken to or even looked at her since, not that she would blame him if he never did again. She thinks of Cassandra, who can’t look at Varric, who wears guilt heavily upon her shoulders even though she is not the guilty party. She thinks of Blackwall, who had looked so shattered to realize what the Wardens had done--and again, after, when she had banished them from Orlais. She thinks of Clarel, who had died somehow both with honor and none at all because terror had turned her from her noble purpose.

None of them had been spared, not when it came to Corypheus and his vile machinations.

But Asha is better than Corypheus. Perhaps. She would like to think she is, at least.

She also would like to think that she knows a man who deserves to die when she sees one. And so she leans down, so close that she is eye to eye with Erimond. “Go to your ‘glory’ in the Fade, then--if you think there is any to be had,” she says. A sick, dark thrill thrums for the barest moment in her blood when nothing but fear remains in his eyes. Quick as a whip, her hand shoots out, her nails digging viciously into flesh as she seizes Erimond’s throat. “And remember whose _mercy_ brought you there,” she snarls.

A parlor trick, Vivienne had called it once--long ago, when they had first met. As talented with frost magic as she is, it had been easy enough--and she’d taught the trick to Asha when she’d asked. How to steal the breath from a man. How to put the frost in their veins.

A web of ice radiates outward from Asha’s firm grip on Erimond’s throat, crackling up the curve of his neck as she slowly, carefully freezes him to death from the inside. His breath comes in wretched, pained gasps, then chokes, and then nothing. His skin goes grey, and when he slumps from her grip, Asha lets him collapse to the floor with a heavy thud. Without a word, she turns away, sweeping back towards the dais. She meets no one’s eyes.

It is only once she has gracefully settled herself back onto the throne, underneath the golden flames engulfing Andraste, that she speaks to the guards who watch her with wide-eyed stares. “Give his body no rites,” she orders coldly. “And throw it into the gorge.”

Time passes sluggishly, after; it seems an age has gone by before the body is removed and the crowd disperses, many throwing hesitant looks over their shoulders at her as they leave. Asha swallows hard, catching the eye of some of her companions. None of them look pleased--rather, they all look worried. Whether it is for her or about her, she doesn’t know.

Asha draws a sharp breath when she rises from the throne at last. She adjourns to Josephine’s office, the rest of her advisors following silently behind her. When the door shuts and she is alone with them at last, what Asha observes on their faces doesn’t make her feel the slightest bit better. Josephine looks shell-shocked, Leliana looks as though she isn’t entirely sure what to make of the situation for once, and Cullen is not looking at her at all. He stares at a point on the wall past her head, his hands folded behind his back and beads of sweat dotting his brow, jaw shuddering.

“Did you really think I would do it?” Asha asks them, softly. The only reason that she doesn’t fear the answer is because, too recently, she has known a much greater terror.

It still hurts, though. Pains her terribly, heart clenched in an invisible, unbearably tight grip when none of them say a word, none of them deny it. Their silence is all the answer that she needs. She lets out a faint huff of rueful laughter.

“I suppose that’s good,” she mutters, looking away from them. “If you hadn’t believed it, then he wouldn’t have.” Her voice is downright frosty when she bites out, “And he deserved to die like the pathetic sycophant that he was. Not the vindicated martyr, going to glory as he wanted to be. After everything--every life that he stole… he deserved to know true fear.”

When she glances back, her heart stutters in her chest when she sees that Cullen is, at last, looking at her. But his gaze leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Quietly wounded, eyes dark. Like she’s reminded him of something that he would rather forget. On a better day, she would be concerned--he looks unwell, has looked that way ever since they’d set out from Griffon Wing Keep on the long road back to Skyhold.

But today is far from even a half-decent day, and she is so very tired.

“Perhaps it would be better if we wait a day before our council,” she whispers, defeated. It’s more of a selfish suggestion than anything--but Josephine lightly clears her throat, giving her pause.

“If I may, Inquisitor,” she begins, and Asha winces as she braces herself for whatever condemnation she’s sure is coming. But she finds herself surprised instead. “While it is good that you didn’t truly mean… what you led everyone to believe… I fear that the mages may raise concerns about the fact that you even thought to suggest it, even as nothing more than a bluff.”

A sudden wave of heat pulses through the room; Josephine falls silent, Leliana’s eyes narrow, and Cullen flinches. Asha sucks in a sharp breath, clenching her fists so tightly that the bite of her nails into her palm draws blood. She wills herself into stillness, just enough to get her emotions under control--though she hardly succeeds, speaking anyway.

“Forgive me,” she says, tone clipped. Her throat bobs in a hard swallow, and her voice is far more vicious when she snaps, “Tranquility is a Templar tool. Meant to be a mercy--but we all know it hasn’t been that in a long, long time. And I am no Templar--the brand will never be a sentence handed down. _Never_. Not when I can achieve the same result with a headsman or a noose, and be far less of a monster for it.”

The silence that follows her words, spoken in high emotion and in haste, is positively thunderous. Leliana purses her lips as her brows climb high; she doesn't disagree, but she looks shocked by the vitriol in Asha's voice. Josephine says nothing, pretending to look at her notes; she has no words. Asha’s heart sinks, immediately regretful.

The way that Cullen is looking at her, she might as well have hit him. Her words have cut him to the bone--and perhaps worse still, he says nothing. No defense of the Order he once served for the majority of his life, that they are not all monsters, no soft admonishment that those words were terribly unworthy of her, nothing. Nothing of his pride. Just haunted eyes and acceptance. As though he deserved that.

“Forgive me,” she says again, voice barely more than a whisper. There is no question that she speaks to him; she looks at him, brows furrowed, gaze desperately trying to convey just how sincerely sorry she is. It’s almost a plea when she adds, softly, “Cullen.”

He smiles at her then--but it’s all wrong. It’s sad and bitter, and it makes her ache when he replies, “What for?”

Asha’s expression crumples before she can stop it; she is reminded of Hawke, then, and shame rises ever higher within her. She draws a shaky breath, a heavy pause stretching between all of them. “Tomorrow morning,” she says at last. She is the first one to reach the door out, intending to go to her quarters and stare at the view of the Frostbacks for a few hours, numb--but she pauses with her hand on the latch. “Josephine?”

“Yes, Your Worship?”

Asha throws a weary glance over her shoulder. “If any of the mages raise concerns about my mention of the Rite--never mind that I would never do it… Ask them if they cared half as much when the Tranquil were vanishing from Redcliffe because the Venatori they’d allied themselves with were murdering them and making tools out of their hollowed skulls.”

 

XXX

 

When a heavy knock comes at her door that evening, Asha doesn’t think much of it. She assumes, at first, that it is Cassandra coming to check on her yet again--likely to make sure that she hasn’t flung herself from the balcony. The Seeker has been by twice in this day alone, though, and while she loves Cassandra for her bullish brand of care, she wants nothing more than to be by herself.

But when she swings the door open, it is Varric standing on the landing, bleary-eyed and holding a thick book in his hands. Asha’s heart stops for a moment before resuming, racing, mild panic creeping up her throat.

“Mind if I come in?” Varric asks quietly. Asha blinks, feels her eyes beginning to water. Embarrassed, she ducks her head and nods, turning away so that he won’t see her swiping at half-formed tears.

They sit together on the chaise, an elegant gift from Vivienne, and Asha hastily sweeps up the small pile of letters that she’d scattered about. One flutters to the floor at Varric’s feet; he picks it up, gaze falling on the page even as he holds it out to her. Asha flushes deeply, gingerly taking it and tucking it away with the rest.

If Varric had recognized Cullen’s neat handwriting, he makes no attempt to ask about why she is reading old letters from him, and she is more than a little grateful for that.

It takes a long while, but eventually, Varric speaks. “Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a merchant guild hit list?” he asks, gaze fixed on the book in his hands. _Tale of the Champion_ , it reads, and Asha’s chest tightens. She shakes her head silently. Varric lets out a soft breath of laughter. “Hawke’s uncle got into an investment scheme with a couple of merchant caste businessmen. They took a lot of people’s coin arranging the import of wandering hills--some delicacy from the Anderfels. Their weird, foreign foodstuffs arrived _alive_ , and one of them, true to its name… wandered off in the middle of the night.”

His voice breaks a little, at the last, and the sound of it makes fat tears roll down Asha’s cheeks. Though she fears Varric brushing her off--and she wouldn’t blame him if he did, because she hardly feels as though she deserves a moment to comfort Varric--Asha reaches out and carefully lays her hand atop his, squeezing tight when he doesn’t rebuff her.

She doesn’t apologize. Nothing she could ever think of, neither the most eloquent apology nor the most tearful, would be enough to make up for even a fraction of what she’s done to him. She merely sits there, her grip unwavering and her weeping silent save for her shaky breaths, waiting for him.

“Shit,” Varric mutters, turning his head in the other direction. His voice is thicker, unsteady, when he finally manages, “The, uh… The guild traced the shipment to Hawke’s uncle, but he was so far in debt he couldn’t see daylight. So they sent guys to Hawke’s estate, instead. Five big dusters, armed to the teeth.” Varric’s voice wobbles, then, and Asha’s brows furrow in concern--but when she looks at Varric, she realizes it’s because he is trying not to laugh.

“They’re about to kick down the door,” he continues, smiling. “And Hawke just… opens it up and invites them all inside. Leandra--that was Hawke’s mother--served them tea and tried to get them to make small talk for upwards of about two hours.” A startled laugh bursts from Asha at that, followed by a wet sniff; Varric looks at her then, and his eyes are shining. He shifts, grabs Asha’s hand and squeezes back, the both of them laughing through tears at the absurdity of the story. “They wandered out of the house in a daze,” Varric manages after a while. “No idea what had just happened, never came back. Hawke laughed about it for weeks. She was just… like that. She had that effect on people.”

“Leaving them in a confused daze?” Asha whispers, pressing her fingers to her mouth after to stifle the strange mix of grief and mirth that wells within her.

But Varric nods, chuckling. “Exactly,” he murmurs. He releases her hand and holds up the book, then, offering it to her. “That story isn’t in here, and I’m not one to just give out stuff for free, but… I don’t know. I thought you might like it.”

Asha takes the book as though it is a precious treasure, holding it carefully. She runs a finger across the cover, tracing the raised edges of Kirkwall’s coat of arms stamped in the center. “Thank you, Varric,” she says softly, lower lip trembling. She doesn’t deserve this--not the book, not his company, not his wit and kindness and presence as a friend. But instead of saying that, she says, “I do love to read.”

“I gathered,” he replies--and Asha’s gaze shoots to his face at the slightest note of dry teasing in his voice.

Heat rises rapidly to her cheeks. “Varric,” she says, good-naturedly scolding. That makes him crack another small smile, and the sight of it makes her eyes water all over again. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, feeling foolish for the platitude but unable to stop herself from saying it.

Varric surprises her, though, shaking his head. “No,” he murmurs. “If I know Hawke, and I… I did. I know it had to have been her choice.” He pauses for a moment, hesitates before he asks,  “How are you holding up?”

Asha squeezes her eyes shut, hanging her head. She does what she can, to not think of it. And now, she feels as though she has no right to be concerned with herself. After all, how can she be? She is alive, again, despite all odds. And Varric has lost his dearest friend because of it. But when she looks at him, his gaze is sincere--there’s no anger, no disappointment, nothing that she batters herself with as much as she can, in most of her waking hours. He’s just concerned.

“Not well,” is what she says, after a long while. She sighs, shaking her head. “Forgive me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Varric asks. He shrugs a shoulder, rubs a hand over tired eyes. “You let me talk, after all.”

“Of course I did; we’re--” Her words die in her throat, just for a moment. She swallows hard and amends, “You’re my friend.”

“And you’re mine,” Varric replies without hesitation. It makes tears well in Asha’s eyes once more, embarrassingly--although this time, they’re tears of relief and joy. She presses the heel of her palm to an eye, trying to hide how affected she is. But Varric is perceptive. “Fair’s fair. I’m all ears.”

At first, Asha isn’t intending to keep him long. She doesn’t mean to say much past the terror, the nightmares of the Nightmare that haunt her when she manages to drop off into a sleep too deep. She means to only say that she doesn’t want to dream, now, doesn’t want to see the Fade for a long time. But in speaking of the fear, she speaks of Ellana. And of course, he doesn’t know who Ellana is, so she explains--vaguely, at first.

But then the dam breaks. And everything--every detail--comes pouring out in an unstoppable rush.

“Well…” he murmurs, much later, when she finally falls silent. He shakes his head, almost dazed. “Shit,” he breathes.

“I know,” Asha says. “Thank you… for listening.”

“Anytime,” he replies easily. They fall silent then, and it is a far more comfortable thing than she’d expected. She is grateful, though--that he’d listened for as long as he did, and that he hadn’t said something about it not being her fault in the end. From the way that he’d been looking at her as she spoke, it’s clear that he believes such a thing--but Asha doesn’t.

To her, it will always be her fault. Always.

“Well,” Varric says after a while, rising from the seat with a little sigh. “I should go. I, uh… I’ve got a few letters to write.”

The somber tone in which he says that tells her that those letters must be to Hawke’s loved ones. She nods, rising as well to see him off. She takes the book with her, turning it over in her hand--and she nearly loses her footing on the steps, startled laughter ringing out sharply. “Varric!”

Varric turns and sees her gaping at the back cover, where there’s a decidedly embellished author’s portrait of him with far more lustrous hair and a highly muscled frame. “I lost a bet,” he lies smoothly, grinning.

“Liar,” Asha snorts, smacking her hand down over the picture and shaking her head. “Does it at least sell more?”

Varric shrugs. “Honestly, I couldn’t say. I like to think so.”

A light giggle escapes her, and Asha pauses for a moment on the landing. She glances away, then, and her tone is hesitant when she says, “You know, I won’t be sleeping for a while yet. Obviously.” She draws a bracing breath and asks, “Would you mind some company by the fire?” She waves the book. “I think I’ll just… read.”

The smile that Varric gives her is kind--far kinder than she deserves from him, but it fills her heart with warmth regardless. “I don’t mind,” he says, walking with her out the door and across the private landing that leads to the main hall. They settle in at Varric’s usual spot--by the hearth near the great doors, sheaves of parchment with spare quills and inkpots laid to one side of the table.

Asha sits across from him, chin propped up on the palm of her hand as she opens to the first page and begins to read Varric’s story--the story about Marian Hawke, and how she rose from having nothing, to becoming a Champion. After a few minutes, though, she realizes that the only sounds she hears are the turning of pages and the crackling fire. She glances up and realizes that Varric is watching her, contemplating something.

“Yes?” she asks, pressing a finger between the pages to mark her place.

“You need a nickname,” Varric says suddenly. Asha blinks, confused--but then the realization hits her, and she has to press a hand to her mouth to stifle a smile.

“Inquisitor?” she jokes, and Varric snorts.

“Nice try. No, something personal. Something… you.” He quirks a brow, thoughtfully tapping a finger against his chin.

Asha glances down at the book, flipping it back open and thinking. After a while, she offers, “There is something my Keeper calls me.” She throws him a wry grin and adds, “But it’s in Elvhen.”

Varric hums for a long moment, but then he raps his knuckles against the table. “Try me,” he says.

Asha smiles. “Da’lath’in,” she says, laughing when Varric’s expression falls flat. “I told you.”

“Alright,” he says, admitting defeat for the moment. “What does that mean?”

“It’s something you’d usually call children, but… it has always stuck with me. Literally, it means ‘little heart’.” She flushes, then, cheeks brightening with the heat. “It’s for someone who is... very emotional. Who wears their heart on their sleeve. In my clan, it’s more common to call someone da’len, which means child, or da’assan, which means little arrow.” She swallows hard, warmth welling in her eyes. “But I was always da’lath’in. Little heart.”

“Little heart,” Varric murmurs--and the tears spill over, at that, a tender reminder of home with the clan coming to find her even here, now, in her new home with the Inquisition. He lets out a soft chuckle. “That’s pretty good, actually.”

Asha smiles, gently brushing the wetness from her face. “You’re welcome,” she says cheekily, and the sound of his resulting laughter--warm, genuine as that of a friend--fills her with more peace than she’s had in many nights.

 

XXX

 

In the days after, Asha does good, quiet labor around Skyhold. Though Josephine likely would’ve recommended tasks for her to accomplish in the public eye, Asha has managed to save her the trouble. She knows well enough that word of Erimond’s judgment has spread, and for every one person who thought his fate too lenient, there are two who watch her with wary eyes in the aftermath.

She hears the whispers--how can she not, after all? The people who wonder what happened at Adamant. The mages who wonder if she has changed, after what they heard of mage Wardens binding a demon army. The fear. The mistrust.

It’s a painful reminder of Haven, all the way back at the start. It is worse now, perhaps, because their lives are in her hands, and they all know it.

And that is why Asha spends time in the garden, tending to the plants with Elan. She helps along the growing harvest, brings along new seeds and tills soil for the next, in full view of those who gather there for peace. She picks blossoms and passes them to the mage children that like to admire them, shows the healers which leaves to pick from the herbs and which to leave to maturity.

She watches the pavilion, but the chess table remains unoccupied.

It is not enough--not to her. Asha works, approves requisitions and arranges for the construction of better training grounds, an infirmary, and of a tower. A place in Skyhold that the mages can call their own. A place where they can work, and study, and have peace. She asks Josephine to petition nobles for the use of their quarries--and the Lady Ambassador has writs of approval from three prominent families in her hands by the end of the week. Construction begins the next, and whatever tension had arisen between Asha and her conscripts is eased, just slightly, as the work progresses.

But it is not enough--not to her. Asha spends time in the kitchens, after, helping the workers knead dough and salt meat, making sure they always have enough to feed their people. She brings them fresh herbs from the garden, plants more as their need grows. She hides the switches from the head cook, passes little jars full of healing paste to the workers--and then asks Josephine if she might find a new, kinder, head cook for Skyhold. By the end of the next day, the old cook has been relieved from his position and a new one arrived, and the workers whisper their thanks when they pass her a covered basket full of little honeycakes.

Asha saves enough for her companions and shares the rest with them, willing tears not to rise in her eyes as she thinks of nights spent by the light of a campfire in the forest long ago, sharing meals with the clan. She watches the half-awed smiles on the workers’ faces at this most unexpected of moments, sharing treats with the Inquisitor in the kitchens as though she is just a woman, not an idol.

Asha feels like a part of her that she’d lost has returned at last. Perhaps she had lost it, for a while. Left it behind in the Fade, sacrificed it as well as Hawke. But the deep ache in her chest, the bittersweet happiness--and relief--that swells within when she thinks about the fact that she has this moment, this opportunity… It nearly undoes her and stitches her together, piece by piece, all at once.

It’s not enough. But someday, it might almost feel like it could be.

Asha leisurely walks around Skyhold, visiting her companions and pressing treats into their hands. Cassandra turns a fantastic shade of red, mutters her thanks and sounds so flustered by the sudden kindness that it makes Asha smile. Blackwall’s reaction is much the same, though his voice at least remains even when he thanks her. Sera hoots with delight, shoving the pastry into her mouth and gracing Asha’s cheek with a crumb-specked kiss, making her laugh. Bull and Vivienne share the same reserved reaction, whether it’s because they lack a sweet tooth or otherwise--but they give her fond smiles along with their thanks. Cole is almost reverent, staring at the treat for a long time before he whispers his gratitude, delighted. Solas and Varric are bemused, laying their honeycakes to the side in favor of chatting with her a while. Dorian teases her, asking if she’d baked just for him; she threatens to smash the cake down his front, and he looks good-naturedly scandalized. Leliana asks her if she is trying to bribe information from her, though it’s unnecessary--but the smile she wears when she says it is soft and radiant, filling her with warmth. Josephine, the angel that she is, gasps in delight and clasps her hands around Asha’s, eyes sparkling as she says her thanks.

But when Asha gently pushes the door to Cullen’s office open, her heart pounding, all that greets her is the sight of a runner dropping a stack of papers at his desk. “Inquisitor!” she says, saluting. “If you’re looking for the commander, he’s gone to speak with Seeker Pentaghast.”

“I see,” she murmurs, carefully perching the covered basket and the one treat that remains within on the edge of the desk. “Thank you,” she says, and the runner nods before leaving out the other door.

It takes Asha a moment, then, to realize why that little bit of information--that Cullen had gone to speak with Cassandra--makes her feel so strange. The image of the empty pavilion and what few glimpses she’d gotten of him during councils--face pale, gaze weary and down, brow pinched--flits through her mind. He’s been so quiet, and their duties have taken them down paths that haven’t crossed much lately. Rarely, she’ll catch him looking at her when her gaze seeks him out. The shadows in his eyes are like her own, born out of the aftermath of what they had all been through at Adamant.

And then it hits her, striking hard between the ribs and rushing the breath from her body. The way Cullen had looked when she’d stepped out of that rift and closed it behind her--gaze too bright, almost frantic, like the way he’d looked at her in Haven. The way that she’d seen Erimond afterwards, had been told by her men that it had been Cullen who’d confronted him, who’d fought through his magefire and beat him half to death, but only half because she’d wanted him alive. Cullen, who had barely slept, barely ate, barely looked at her--who stares now, more and more often, at his hands. Especially when they shake.

_“Lyrium grants Templars our abilities, but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer… Some go mad, others die.”_

She realizes, then, that it is not just about Adamant.

_“I have asked Cassandra to watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, she will relieve me from duty.”_

Asha goes flying out the door, nearly tumbling down the stone steps of the battlements in her haste. Her eyes rove frantically over the courtyard, searching as she runs, chest tight, breath quick.

She must find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: nothing comes easy.


	17. Perseverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cullen told you that he is no longer taking lyrium?”
> 
> “Yes,” Asha replies, glancing sidelong at the door. “He said he would trust your judgment when it came to… this.”
> 
> Cassandra rolls her eyes. “He was not interested in my judgment today,” she says ruefully. A beat of silence passes before she admits, “Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my new favorite chapter. A note, it does go dark; there's heavy discussion of past trauma--on both of their parts--as well as Cullen's PTSD and withdrawal.

_"And I bet you never knew,_   
_never knew love could be this bright._   
_Ain't it something?"_   
**\-- 'Digital Kids' by Vicktor Taiwo**

* * *

 

Asha finds them in the armory, the sight of a handful of Harritt’s smiths milling about out front with nervous looks in their eyes tipping her off. She strides past without a word to them, face flushed, hoping that she no longer looks as frantic as she’d felt. The flutter of panic dulls in her gut, and the creak of the door announces her arrival.

The sight that greets her isn’t exactly reassuring. Cassandra stands nearly toe to toe with Cullen, her arms folded and a deeply unimpressed frown on her face. She glances at the door when it opens, a glimmer of faint relief in her eyes when she sees Asha step into the armory. Cullen, however, looks far less pleased by her presence. His eyes go wide, the scowl he’d worn rapidly fading into a look of deep shame. Bright spots of color appear high on his cheeks.

Asha says nothing, pausing when she stands before them. Though her heart pounds a rapid-fire rhythm against her ribs, concern etched in her features, she waits. She watches Cullen.

Cassandra throws him a pointed look, and their combined scrutiny proves too much for him. Jaw clenching tightly, he makes for the entrance. But he slows when he passes Asha, their shoulders nearly brushing, her gaze never leaving his face. “Forgive me,” he mutters, voice raw. And then he is gone, the door slamming heavily behind him.

Cassandra scoffs. “And people say _I’m_ stubborn. This is ridiculous,” she says. Beneath the exasperation in her tone, there is concern; when she looks back to Asha, her gaze is guarded. “Cullen told you that he is no longer taking lyrium?”

“Yes,” Asha replies, glancing sidelong at the door. “He said he would trust your judgment when it came to… this.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “He was not interested in my judgment today,” she says ruefully. A beat of silence passes before she admits, “Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him.”

“No,” Asha blurts, before she can think to stop herself. Cassandra’s brows climb high, and Asha lets out a slightly embarrassed huff. She shakes her head, swallows hard and chooses her words more carefully. “If… If my opinion matters in this, even the slightest bit… I would ask that you not even consider it.”

“I _haven’t_ considered it,” Cassandra says, sounding baffled by the fact that Asha would even think that--that she would replace Cullen so easily, or that her own opinion has no bearing on the matter. “It is not necessary. Besides… it would destroy him. He’s come so far.”

Asha sinks her teeth into the meat of her lower lip, worrying at it as she thinks of what little she’s seen of Cullen these past few weeks. She wonders, briefly, if he’d thought to ask for anything--infusions, healing herbs, anything that might ease the burden of his decision--but she knows better. Knows that he is too stubborn for that, to determined to do anything but endure in silence. But the small hurt still creeps into her voice when she asks, “Why hasn’t he said anything until now?”

The silence stretches between them, and Cassandra wonders if she should even speak what she believes is the answer. Brash and straightforward is she, but the intimate nature of the truth is a matter between Asha and Cullen. Even if it is plain as day to her. And then, she realizes that perhaps Asha is too close to the matter to truly see it--and that prompts her to answer, carefully, “He would not want to... risk your disappointment.”

“My disappointment?” Asha echoes, stunned. Heat creeps high onto her cheeks, and she is grateful then for the dimness of the armory. _‘Fool of a man,_ ’ she thinks, an aching tension knotting in her gut.

“Surely you’ve noticed his regard for you,” Cassandra says bluntly, all reservations thrown aside.

Asha’s breath sticks in her throat; it is nothing but sheer willpower that keeps her from admitting, then and there, that she has hoped for it more than once. She presses a hand to her cheek, face flaming, and swallows hard. “I…” she breathes, trying for composure. Needing it. “I must ask… how can we make him change his mind? See that… That he is capable of more than this?”

Cassandra’s tone is surprisingly gentle when she responds, “If anyone could make him understand that, it is you.” She inclines her head respectfully and says, “It is no secret, the suffering that mages have endured. They make it known, but Templars have never done the same. They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash.” Her voice is earnest when she finishes, “Cullen has a chance to break that leash, to prove to himself--and anyone that would follow suit--that it’s possible.”

“Do you believe it’s possible?” Asha asks solemnly. The answer, in truth, does not matter in regard to her own support. She believes it’s possible for Cullen to overcome this, and even if she were the only one who did, she would not waver in her faith. But regardless, it is Cassandra who had agreed to evaluate the situation. And so, Cassandra must believe that it is possible as well.

“I do,” she says, and Asha’s relief is palpable. “He _can_ do this; I knew that when we met in Kirkwall.” A beat passes, and then, “But, as I said. It is not my good opinion that he seeks, even if he will not admit it. Talk to him.”

Cassandra leaves her, then, alone in the armory with nothing but the crackle of flames in the hearth breaking the silence.

It isn’t her place to tell Cullen what he should do with his life; that is an important thing for her to remember as she makes her way across the courtyard, to his tower above the gatehouse. Especially considering Cassandra’s words--that the Templars have always been leashed by a firm hand. She is right--until Cullen had mentioned the consequences of being cut off from lyrium, she had never considered what kind of suffering the Templars must have endured. It has always been easy for her to think of them as a single, terrible entity. In the face of what mages have had to endure, it had been easy for her to erase a Templar’s struggles entirely.

But how many of them knew the consequences of the lifestyle that they had chosen to live? The Chantry, despite what it preaches, is not kind. Asha has known this all her life--but Cullen? Had he known, as a young boy of thirteen leaving home for the first time, what would await him? That once he wore the armor, he was not likely to notice the chains beneath until it was far too late? Had he ever wondered why the Order grew its ranks from those who were young--so that they might never try to question the only thing they had ever known?

 _‘And the Chantry calls my people savages,'_ she thinks, bitterly.

Asha’s thoughts turn to her mother, then--a faint figure in memory with warm skin, dark hair, and a desire for her daughter to live as a free woman. She pauses on the steps up to the battlements, hands clenching into tight fists over the stone as pain and anger pierce her. Pain that Cullen doubts himself. Anger, for the same reason--and for what he’d lost of himself that makes him falter so. For the freedom that he’d given up.

She cannot make this choice for him, but she can tell him that she believes in him. She can do that much, at least.

When Asha steps into Cullen’s office, it is nothing more than sheer luck that the object he hurls with a roar misses her face by a hairsbreadth, crashing against the open door, shattering against it. She flinches and then gapes at Cullen, who stands against his desk and only just notices that she is there.

“Maker’s breath,” he gasps, horrified. His voice shakes terribly when he stammers, “I didn’t hear you enter, I--I’m--”

“Cullen--”

“Forgive me,” he whispers, bowing his head as he braces himself against the desk. She realizes then that he’d flung his lyrium kit away, its little philters shining, scattered before him.

Asha’s throat works for a moment, struggling. After a long while, she manages a surprisingly even, “What for? You weren’t aiming at me.”

The look that he gives her is so pained that she wishes she hadn’t tried to be flippant. “I swear, I would never--” he starts, before the words choke off in his throat as he takes a step towards her, and then his leg gives out from under him, sending him crashing heavily to one knee. Asha darts for him, reaching out--but he flings a shaking hand up to block her, groaning and hissing, “Please, I… I never meant for this to interfere.”

Asha wets her lips, resisting the urge to sink down beside him and lay her hands on him anyway. “I know,” she murmurs, watching him struggle to his feet, panting. A thin sheen of cold sweat shines upon his brow. He truly does look ill. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Yes,” he replies automatically--but then he winces, slowly meeting her eyes. She can see the way that he wavers, doubt in his gaze. “I don’t know,” he admits, softly. He swallows hard, jaw clenching as his mind works; when he speaks again, his voice is flat. “You’ve never asked me about what really happened at Ferelden’s Circle.”

Asha’s heart skips for a moment, and then it slams against her ribs at twice the speed it had done before. This, she realizes, is when she will learn. All of the nights he’d stopped by the apothecary in Haven, tired shadows in his eyes--eyes that, now, are red-rimmed and bloodshot, too tense, looking at her as though he isn’t really seeing her. All of it, she will know the reason for. She keeps her voice gentle, not pressing. “I thought you might tell me, when you were ready.”

The bark of laughter he lets out at that is bitter, no warmth or mirth within. “It was taken over by abominations,” he says, voice tight. “The Templars--my _friends_ \--were slaughtered. Locked in the tower and left to die, and I--I was… I was… tortured.”

Asha’s gut twists, turning as she watches him move away from her, looking towards the open window as if he is somewhere else, seeing something else entirely. She tastes bile in the back of her throat. She’d had ideas of what the truth might have been. But hearing him say it in broken starts, hearing him relive the worst days of his life…

She isn’t prepared for it. But she won’t stop him.

“Demons tried to break my mind,” he babbles, hands braced against the stone walls. His shoulders begin to tremble. “They said things, showed me--things… I wanted… It never ended, it was a game, I was sport--I’d… wake up, but I wasn’t… I was always there, and I was--all the blood and _abominations_ \--and I--” He laughs again, too sharply, too unsteady, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. “How can you be the same person after that?” he gasps, turning towards her--flinching when he meets her gaze.

Asha watches him silently. _‘You can’t_ ,’ she thinks, remembering things that she too would rather forget. _‘You can never be the same.’_

“Still, I wanted to serve,” Cullen mutters, looking away from her, his breath ragged. He drags a hand harshly over his eyes, grimacing; everything is spilling from him, ugly and dark. “They sent me to _Kirkwall_. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what, hm? Her fear of mages ended in _madness_ \--Kirkwall’s Circle fell, innocent people died in the streets!” His voice is desperate when he steps towards her--and Asha forces herself to remain rooted, to not flinch away. But he would not lay his hands on her--they are at his side, balled tightly into fists as he snarls, “Can’t you see why I want _nothing_ to do with that life?”

“Of course I can,” she whispers, eyes shining. But when she takes a step forward, reaches out to him, it is a mistake.

“ _Don’t!_ ” he roars, flinching away; Asha’s hand snaps back down to her side in an instant, and she can only watch as he paces between the bookshelves and the desk. His gaze is hard, almost manic. “You--you, of all people, should be questioning what I’ve done.”

A spark of anger snaps to life within her, flaring in her eyes. “I, of all people?” she repeats. “Why, because the mage must fear the Templar? I am not an excuse you can tear yourself to pieces with.”

“You don’t _understand_ \--”

“And why wouldn’t I?” Asha snaps, ire rising. She hadn’t come here for this--to pick a fight, to get riled up over his misguided ideas of who she must be in relation to him, even if he hadn’t truly meant it to sound the way that it did--but even so. Even so, he doesn’t know that she _does_ understand. Even so, he is too stubborn, too determined to punish himself. “Why does it fall on me to question your every action--as if you don’t do enough of that on your own?!”

“With good reason!” Cullen fires back, rounding on her, so close that his breath is hot on her face when he snarls, “I am not a good man!”

That stuns her into silence; she steps back from him, eyes round and mouth agape in shock. Her chest tightens so much that her breath comes pained, heat pricking at the corners of her eyes. “You can’t believe that,” she says.

His eyes are haunted, and there is little emotion save for resignation in his voice when he says, “I begged the Hero of Ferelden to kill every mage left alive in Kinloch. I _begged_ for the Right of Annulment.”

And _that_ \--there it is, her horrified gaze, her disgust when she recoils. She might’ve known, might’ve guessed--but she’d never really lingered on the possibility until now, when the truth is laid bare before her.

She swallows hard, breath quivering. Chill dread creeps in her veins, into her lungs--but there is a knowing glint in Cullen’s eyes, as if this is what he wants, as if he’ll be satisfied, accept it, if she says the word he expects to hear. Monster.

She understands, now, why he’d said nothing that day in Josephine’s office. Why he’d looked at her the way that he had, refused to accept an apology.

They are so similar in the ways that they punish themselves, she realizes. That frightens her. And Asha cannot lie and tell him that he wasn’t terrible--can’t give him any absolution. She isn’t sure if he’ll ever find any, for that. Just like she isn’t sure that she will ever find it for her own sins.

Now isn’t the time, though, for her to mention her own failure. “You aren’t that man anymore,” she says, voice raw. It’s all that she can give him--and she means it.

But it’s as if he doesn’t hear her at all; he’s turned away, stalking back and forth, hands violently trembling. His eyes are unfocused, feverish and unaware; he isn’t here any longer. His mind is somewhere far when he jerks his head, shakily mutters, “I thought this would be better--that I would regain some control over my life… But these thoughts won’t _leave_ me!”

Asha takes another step away, hands clasped tightly together as she watches Cullen--strong, stubborn, proud Cullen--pick and pull at old hurts, lets the self-loathing swallow him whole.

“How many lives depend on our success?” he stammers, voice rising. “How often does yours depend on mine--how many times have I failed? I _swore_ myself to this cause!” His voice goes low, guttural when he turns away, back towards the shelves. “I will _not_ give less to the Inquisition than I did the Chantry! I should be _taking it!_ ”

Asha flinches when Cullen, entirely unraveled, swings out and connects his fist with the shelves; there is a terrible crunch and a crack as the wood splinters and books fall, and his breath rushes out of him in an explosive, shuddering gasp.

“I should be taking it,” he whispers, brokenly.

Asha’s vision blurs, tears welling, threatening to spill. She takes a breath, forces herself to say in as even a tone as possible, “Void take the Inquisition, and Void take the Chantry.” Cullen blinks hard, the haze falling from his eyes as he gapes at her, shocked. She leans over the desk, snatches a philter from the surface, and holds it up in the light. “This is your choice to make, and yours alone. Is this what you want?”

“No,” he breathes, raggedly, fixated on the lyrium. His pupils grow fat at the sight of it, throat bobbing as he swallows reflexively. But then he blinks again, his brow furrowing as he drags his gaze from the philter to her face. “No,” he says, softer. Steadier.

Without another word, Asha is rounding the desk, gathering all of the little bottles in her hands. He's given his answer. She darts to the window before he realizes her plan--and with all her might, she throws all of the lyrium out, watching the philters fall and disappear down the side of the mountain. She stares for a long moment, her breath shaky, blood rushing, pounding in her ears.

Eventually, she manages to gather her courage and peek over her shoulder at Cullen.

The look that he gives her is such an impossible combination of tenderness and fear that it shakes her down to the core. His voice is weary when he confesses, “These… These memories have always haunted me.” His gaze flits to the window. “If they grow worse… If I cannot endure this--”

In what is either a very wise or very foolish move, Asha leaves the window, striding right to him and snatching his face up in her hands. His breath chokes off in his throat, his eyes going wide as he stares at her, and she at him. Her eyes burn with unshed tears, brows knitted--but despite her fierce expression, her hands are nothing but gentle. Warm. And there is no trace of doubt in her voice when she says, simply, “You can.”

They are still for a long moment--just the two of them, in a position that would certainly raise eyebrows if anyone were to walk into the room. But Asha doesn’t pull away--and neither does Cullen, staring at her like he is half-wondering whether or not she is real. She is keenly aware of the rasp of his stubble beneath her palms, jaw clenching under her touch. The Anchor hums against his skin, and he doesn’t withdraw from it. Something flutters, feather-light, in her heart, in the pit of her stomach.

He is very close. And slowly, Asha lets her fingers trail down the planes of his face--feels him shiver right before her hands drop away, back down to her sides.

She wants little more than to draw up, closer, pressing her mouth to his and learning the feel, the taste of him. But the thought only lasts for a moment--the one thing she wants far more than that is for Cullen to not falter. To see this through. And she would be a fool to distract him from this; to take his thoughts away with tender touches and kisses.

If there would ever be a time for that, it isn’t now.

“Thank you,” he says after a long while, voice cracked. His gaze is dim--exhausted.

A faint smile tugs at the corners of her lips, pained and sweet all at once. “What for?” she whispers. He doesn’t smile--can’t--but his eyes soften.

She leaves him quietly, knowing the look of someone who would rather be left alone. She doesn’t think he’ll waver in the solitude--otherwise, she wouldn’t let him have it. But she trusts him. She knows he won’t come out from his office the rest of the day, knows that he won’t go see a healer for whatever the punch had done to his hand, and knows that the likely thing he’ll do will be flinging himself headfirst into work that he has no business burying himself under when he is already weighed down by so much.

Cullen won’t let himself rest--but Asha supposes that she is a bit the same. It is a hard thing, to be entirely alone with one’s thoughts. But he’d told her, before, that he could endure. She believes he can.

She hopes that he comes to believe that, as well.

 

XXX

 

The first time Asha slips into his office the following day, Cullen isn’t there; this is deliberate, as she’d waited until she caught sight of him walking, a bit stiff-legged, to the armory. She hadn’t wanted him to be there--hadn’t wanted him to feel as though she were pressing him on his recovery.

Asha frowns when she shuts the door behind her; the slightly sour tang of sickness is in the air, and she wonders how late into the night he must’ve been up, retching. From what she knows of lyrium withdrawal--though it is admittedly not much, limited to what it does to a mage--nausea, headaches, and chills are what he is suffering. From what she knows of the things that Cullen has told her, breaks in the mind are also common.

Asha swallows hard, gently setting down the bottles in her arms on the only empty space of his desk. There’s, of course, the royal elfroot infusion for a compress, to soothe the aches. Another of embrium, to calm the mind and ease the breath in his lungs to a normal rhythm. And then there’s a few small warming draughts of witherstalk, to stave off the cold. She leaves little notes with all of them, detailing their purpose.

Her mouth twists, color rising in her cheeks. He might not use them, but she can’t keep herself from giving them anyway. Unless he tells her to stop, she can’t simply not care for him in what little ways she knows how.

She goes nearly the rest of the day without seeing him, after; she spends some time with Dorian in the garden, and then with Josephine gossiping about the visiting dignitaries. She visits with Leliana in the rookery, discussing a plan to make contact with a potential informant in the Emerald Graves--a thing that leaves her a bit breathless, aching at the idea of being able to visit the Dalish forest of legend. And then, back to Josephine’s office with Leliana in tow to discuss the impending peace talks at Halamshiral.

They are only a few short months out from Empress Celene’s masquerade at the Winter Palace, but Asha listens only with half an ear to the suggestions on how they might curry enough favor to gain an invitation. Her mind is elsewhere--in a quiet tower above the gatehouse. Her fingers twitch, seeking herbs to crush and poultices to craft, to heal.

She searches for him in the main hall, when the dinner bell has been rung. With much of Skyhold’s interior repairs complete and the scaffolding gone, mealtimes are far livelier now that there is a great space to hold them besides the Herald’s Rest. But Cullen is not in either of those places.

Eventually, the wondering is too great. Though he likely isn’t eating at all, Asha can’t help herself from darting into the garden, gathering, and making her way to the kitchens. The workers gape at her, wondering if something is wrong--but Asha waves away their concern with a kind smile and a show of the leaves in her hands.

It is nothing, to set a large pot to boiling and steep the ironwort within. She is grateful for her clan’s generosity, and for the elven girl who steps by her side and sets a tea tray before her as she waits. “Ma serannas,” she murmurs, inclining her head.

The girl blushes and bobs in a little curtsy. Her gaze darts to the pot, and then to the tray. “For the commander?” she asks shyly. When Asha smiles and nods again, she gathers a little honeypot and a bowl of lemon slices--and two cups, which makes a bit of color rise to Asha’s cheeks.

Her eyes shine; that he drinks enough of the tea for the kitchen workers to know his preferences for it makes warmth bloom in her heart, suffusing her skin. Taking the tray and bidding the workers a good night, she makes a note to ask her Keeper to send another bundle of ironwort along, so that she might plant even more in the garden.

A thin sliver of warm light glows underneath the door to Cullen’s office; carefully, Asha balances the tray against a hip and knocks twice. She might’ve simply left it by the door--but she is selfish, wanting to see him even if only for a moment.

The door jerks open a bit roughly--but the glare falls from Cullen’s face when he sees that it is her on the other side. “Inquisitor,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. Wan and with a pinched brow, he doesn’t look much better than he had yesterday. He looks thinner, as well--though Asha knows that’s simply because he’s out of his armor, for once, wearing a simple dark tunic and trousers. But despite evidence of his poor health, she is still so very happy to see him.

“Cullen,” she says softly, deliberately. The sharp scent of elfroot wafts from inside, and her heart flutters in her chest. She holds the tray out to him. “I thought it might help,” she says.

He takes it from her, their fingers brushing together. His hands are freezing, shaking. Asha expects him to whisper thanks and then shut the door--but Cullen surprises her, leaving it open as he brushes reports aside and sets the tray on one end of his desk. He glances up, meets her eyes.

She bites back a smile at the faint glimmer of hope she sees, though it makes her chest tighten. Quietly, she steps inside and shuts the door behind her. The scent of elfroot is very powerful, now, nearly stinging her nose; but at least it means he’s been using the compress. Asha watches Cullen settle himself at his desk, cautious with his unsteady hands as he pours the tea. The knuckles of one hand are mottled with deep bruises. He glances up at her, a question in his eyes, and she shakes her head.

“They gave me two cups, but it is all for you,” she murmurs, slowly approaching the desk. He murmurs a quiet thanks, ducking his head. Carefully, Asha gathers up a stack of requisitions needing approval, setting them aside and leaving just enough space that she might perch on the edge, her back to him. She feels the weight of his gaze upon her, but she’s decided not to disturb him. Though he’d wanted the company, she can tell by the dim lighting and the way that he speaks in low tones, silence would benefit him.

Asha is happy just to be in his presence, no matter if she can speak or not. She prefers this, in fact--the quiet of his space broken only by the sounds of papers shuffling as he works, reads over them. The scratch of a quill on what requires a signature, or a note. The sound of his breathing, only slightly labored.

Asha watches the doors for anyone that might enter, but the time passes, and Skyhold grows quieter and quieter as the moons rise high above. Eventually, even the mountain winds cease to howl. Yet still, Cullen works, though the stretches of silence in between as he reads grow longer and longer as he loses focus. Through it, Asha says nothing. She is waiting for a moment, moving only when too many minutes have passed and the teapot stops steaming. Each time, she presses her hand to the surface and reheats it, for him.

There is something she should tell him, she comes to realize. The thought crosses her mind when she thinks about the previous day--the way that he’d told her that she couldn’t possibly understand what makes him so reluctant to accept any kindness, any reprieve from his own self-torment. She realizes that, as he tore himself open and exposed what he was most ashamed of to her, it is only fair that she do the same.

But more than for fairness, she wants to tell him. Strangely, she wants him to know.

She can’t quite figure out why, but the thought won’t leave her.

Eventually, Cullen sets his work down at last--he’s strained himself, vision blurring so much that he can no longer make sense of the words on the pages before him. Asha’s ear twitches in his direction when he sighs, softly. She glances over her shoulder and finds him watching her.

It’s late, but she must ask, “Might I tell you something?”

He looks unsure, for a moment. Hollow-eyed, so very tired. But somehow, he feels that he should say yes. He nods, once, gaze fixed on her face.

Asha pushes off the desk and rounds the side, coming to stand before him; Cullen shifts back out of reflex, surprised by her sudden closeness. But Asha leans in the space between him and the desk, their knees touching. He swallows hard, heat rising to his face as he thinks that if anyone were to walk in right now, gossip would surely spread through the fortress like wildfire.

Nobody comes, though. They are alone. Asha’s gaze is steady--but there is something in her soft voice that shakes when she speaks. “Do you recall… how my mother was from an alienage? That she sought out a clan to join, and found Clan Lavellan--and I was born, free, in the Wending Wood?”

Cullen nods. If he wonders why she speaks of this now, he says nothing, gives her no strange look.

Perhaps if she’d had another story to tell, that might’ve pleased Asha. But his attentiveness only makes the tension in her gut knot ever-tighter, squeezing her insides to the point of pain. Fear. But she keeps talking. “By the time that I was six, my magic had manifested. But by then--” Her breath catches, quivering. She swallows. “By then, my clan already had a First. Ellana.”

Something in the way that she says the name makes understanding flicker in Cullen’s gaze. He straightens slightly in his seat, watching her. Knowing, now, that this story will not be an entirely pleasant one.

Not at all, Asha thinks. “Ellana was--incredibly talented. To no one’s surprise. Compared to her, I was--I was…” She laughs then, softly. A bit bitter. “Not terrible, by any means. But anything I could do wonderfully, she could do twice over with more skill and precision. She was a model apprentice, always casting in proper form. Always disciplined.” She worries at her lower lip. “I was… too much, when I was that young. Very excitable, very eager to learn everything that I could.”

“I can’t imagine that being a bad thing,” Cullen murmurs. She blinks at him, finding sincerity.

Her mouth and her gut twist. “I asked Ellana to help me, one day--I think a year and a half into our training. Our aravels were camped in the Planasene Forest, but she and I ran far off to the outskirts, closer to the forest path. I would never be First, but I wanted to be the best that I could. And Ellana was my very best friend; we spent all our time together, and she knew that I learned differently from her. She understood that, where her power was in her discipline, mine was in my feelings.

“We practiced fire,” she continues, voice growing weaker. Her gaze mists over as she recalls something so very far away--but in her mind, as clear as ever. “And this was… This was when we didn’t know.” She swallows hard. “About Templars.”

Dread drops like a heavy stone, deep in the pit of Cullen’s gut.

“It was the smoke; I wasn’t careful enough,” Asha says. Her hands grip the edge of the desk so tightly that they tremble, the wood biting into her palms. “By the time we heard the horses, they were already too close. And Ellana told me to go hide--she was the First, protecting her kin--and I listened. I found a hollow trunk, climbed inside. I was… close enough to hear.”

Cullen wants to stop her. He doesn’t want to know this--and yet he has no right to silence her. This is something that she’s hidden within her, as he’d hidden his festering wounds from a decade past. He has no right to deafen himself to it. He shouldn’t.

But Maker, the way that her voice breaks when she says, “I thought Ellana would be fine. She was so strong, how could she not be? But we didn’t know about Templars, we didn’t know how they could… How they could just… _rip_ the magic away. And when I listened, when I realized that Ellana wasn’t going to be able to handle it on her own, I…” Her eyes are pale, haunted. “I stayed hiding,” she confesses. “I stayed hiding, and I listened to the Templars while they held her down, while she screamed, and they cut off her head.”

A memory of the Fade and of her childhood, of little girls in loose robes without their heads, flashes through her mind. Bile rises in her throat, but she swallows it down. She looks away from Cullen, can’t see the sick shock in his eyes. She can’t see the sympathy that she does not deserve.

“I heard them as they were leaving,” Asha says, voice wobbling. “Talking about warning the villages nearby of… savages and their maleficar in the woods. I hid until I couldn’t hear them anymore, and then I… I ran home. And I told them, and--” She tastes salt on her lips, realizes that she is crying--and she can’t keep her voice even any longer, can’t pretend that she has control. A chill rushes through the room, and she chokes on her words trying to hold it back. “And Keeper Deshanna went out to the woods with the hunters. She brought back her daughter’s body and buried her, and we moved on that night. We couldn’t stay, and all of it was-- _my_ fault.

“And I was First,” she whispers, voice high and grieved. “And they _forgave_ me, they all--even Deshanna--forgave me. I was too young, I didn’t know--but how can that matter? They forgave me, but I--” She hiccups, then, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. The sobs. She shakes her head, slowly, and raises wet eyes to meet Cullen’s.

The pain that Asha sees in them only makes the tears fall harder. He looks near-tortured by this--her greatest secret, greatest shame, greatest failure--but she knows that he wants to tell her that it is not her fault. But he’s wrong. It is her fault--but that is not the point. She looks away again. “I could do all the good in the world,” she whispers, watching the way that Cullen’s hands shake, balled tightly into trembling fists. “And it would never be enough for me to really forgive myself for the way that I failed them--all of them--that day.”

Her breath shudders wetly from her when she finishes, quietly, “So you see… I do understand, a little bit. About… hating the things that you’ve done. Costing people because of your own… failure.”

“It’s not the same,” he gasps, choked--Asha can hear the grief in his voice, can see it in the rigid lines of his shoulders when she looks at him. “You were a child--”

“It still doesn’t make it right.”

“ _You_ didn’t know,” Cullen fires back, breathing raggedly. He tries to be composed, but it’s like trying to catch smoke--useless, impossible. Here Asha is, baring her soul to him--and then offering him comfort when he deserves none. “I knew, I knew in Kirkwall what my brothers and sisters in the Order were doing to the mages, and I pretended not to. And then I pretended that I was right, that--” He looks at her then, eyes fever-bright, reddened and tortured. “I held a mage down who’d passed her Harrowing while Meredith made her Tranquil. For using blood magic, she said. She was a maleficar, she said. And the girl kept screaming, said that she wasn’t--and I didn’t believe her.”

Asha doesn’t even flinch, though he says it like he means for it to hurt her. Like it should hurt her, make her despise him as much as he despises himself for those days, for every mistake. But she is too empty, hot tears drying on her cheeks, to be angry. “How many times did you hold down screaming mages while they were made Tranquil?” she asks. Her voice is surprisingly even.

Cullen feels his gut roil, swallows hard past the lump in his throat. “That once.” But once was one time too many.

“Why the once?” she asks. Cullen doesn’t understand at first. His mind, fragmented from dull pain and lack of sleep, works to find the answer.

But then he knows. Remembers. Remembers the way that Meredith had caught him watching the girl--the Tranquil--when they had led her away. The way her eyes had been icy, calculating in their scrutiny. The way that after, she’d assigned him more patrols around the Gallows than ever before--not the responsibilities that he’d grown accustomed to having her place on his shoulders as her Knight-Captain. And he’d never watched her brand a mage Tranquil again. He only saw them after, a growing presence in the Gallows.

“Because she knew,” he says, thickly. “That even though I’d taken her word over the mage’s, I didn’t think it was… I didn’t…”

“You were as much of a tool to her as anyone else was,” Asha murmurs. She knows. “What you would come to question, after that, she kept from you. Didn’t she?”

“It still doesn’t make it right,” he says, parroting her words with a little too much bite. He winces, sorry for that. But Asha doesn’t seem to notice.

“It doesn’t,” she agrees. A beat passes; she wets her lips, swallows with a touch of nerves. She isn’t sure she wants to hear the answer, but she asks, “Do you honestly think I have any right to forgive myself for what happened to Ellana?”

The way she spits those words, angry with herself, wounds him. He can’t imagine what a thing like that must have done to her, so young; it makes him loathe the man that he had been even more. Ten years ago, he could’ve been that Templar. He knows it. Her mistake as a child is nothing compared to that. “Yes,” he says at last.

The look that she gives him is wry. “I should let it go.”

He looks uncomfortable. “Not… Not that lightly, but--”

“What about you?” Asha asks, and the question is like drawing a line in the dirt, daring him to cross it. She _wants_ him to cross it; perhaps she is a hypocrite, unable to ever truly forgive herself for what had happened--but at least she has done what she could to move on, yet he is struggling to do the same. She had allowed herself to receive the clan’s love, allowed herself to welcome being the future that they look to--and she’s allowed herself to welcome this. The Inquisition. Her title.

Her feelings for Cullen.

His gaze goes flat. “It’s not the same,” he says again. Stubborn. “I am not--”

“You are a good man,” Asha cuts him off, firmly. Her eyes flash, glowing. “You are.”

“The things I’ve done--”

“Were _monstrous_ ,” she hisses, watching him flinch, cowed into silence. But her gaze softens, and her voice gentles. “But you saw it, in the end. You opened your eyes. And you are trying to atone now. You’ve left that life.” A beat passes, and her voice shakes when she breathes, “You stepped between a mage and a Templar when the Templar went for his sword.”

Cullen looks away from her then, but Asha knows he remembers. She knows he remembers that day in Haven--because she remembers. She has thought of it often.

Perhaps it had started then. Her eyes water--Void take her--when the thought crosses her mind. Perhaps that had been the day when she’d begun to truly see him. When she’d begun to care.

She murmurs, “You’ve seen the worst of us as we’ve seen the worst of you. It would’ve been easier for you to stay blind--to take the lyrium. But you don’t.” She startles a choked huff of laughter from him when she says, “Leliana is right; you’re a pigheaded bastard sometimes--I’ve said no to enough of your _ridiculous_ proposals in our councils to know that.” Her voice is so overwhelmingly tender when she finishes, softly, “But I believe in the man that you are now, Cullen. Very much so.”

She isn’t capable of fixing things--and for this, she wouldn’t want to try, because it’s his path to walk. But at the very least, she won’t let him think that he needs to be alone with his thoughts. She won’t let him think that he is alone at all.

Asha might’ve broken him with that, though. Cullen can’t look at her, bowing forward in his seat until his head is nearly in her lap, his elbows braced on his knees. His breath comes quick, choked, and he squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heels of his palms to them. His skin grows wet and warm, the taste of salt on his lips as he draws shuddering breaths.

Asha stays with him, like that, her breath soft and warmth radiating from her. “Sathan,” she murmurs, voice breaking. “Tel’numin, ma’halla.” She reaches out and gently brushes her fingers through the sweat-damp hair at his brow, the sheer intensity of her affection--her longing for him--nearly overwhelming her.

Whether it’s the tenderness of her tone or her touch that sets his heart aflame, sends it racing for her in turn, Cullen doesn’t know. What he does know is that, somehow, he is broken and held together all at once. And he is immeasurably grateful for her. Her kindness, her wit, her gentle hands, her ire when he earns it, her care when he doesn’t deserve it. For everything.

Everything about Asha, he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 90k+ words and they ain't even kissed. All in good time.
> 
> Elvhen translation:  
> "Sathan. Tel'numin, ma'halla." - 'Please. Don't cry, my halla.' The last is a term of endearment for a very close friend.
> 
> Up next: Asha cares.


	18. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Asha has undoubtedly already come to this conclusion, he still admits, “I was… different, after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me. And I’m not proud of the man that made me.” His gaze flicks sidelong to her for a moment--to the space upon her back where her staff usually rests. There is no rush of relief, no knot in his gut that loosens when he sees that it isn’t there--instead, he only wonders where she’d left it.
> 
> That Cullen no longer feels glad to see a mage without their weapon is nowhere near enough to make up for even a single thing that he’d done or thought during those dark years, but it is one of many small steps in the right direction. As is his honesty, he hopes, when he says, “The way that I saw mages… I doubt I would have cared about you. And the thought of that sickens me.”
> 
> He realizes, belatedly, that he couldn’t possibly have sounded more taken with her if he’d tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is incredibly near and dear to me--particularly because I thought of my husband a lot while I wrote it. I hope you all love it, too.

_"To be with you is easy._  
_I know you're good for me._  
_This feeling inside me--_  
_oh, it sends me sky high."_  
**\-- 'Good For Me' by Above & Beyond**

* * *

 

Asha finds Cullen in a rare moment of peace on the battlements outside of his office. She’d come through searching, her presence requested by one of his runners. But his desk had been unoccupied, and the door opposite had been left open enough that she’d caught sight of him across the way.

She indulges herself for a moment, watching him. The midday breeze tugs at his surcoat, ruffles the fur of his mantle. Gone is the invisible weight from his shoulders that had been so prominent in recent days; he stands tall, relaxed. The rigid lines of him have softened, the stiff lock of pained limbs abated. Though his back is to her, Asha imagines that she’d see a bit of color returned to his face as well.

Relief and joy well within her in equal measure. It’s with a gentle--and perhaps telling--smile that Asha walks forward, laying a hand against his elbow when she reaches his side. He glances down, doesn’t start from the touch, and there’s a most welcome clarity in his gaze when he looks at her. “Feeling better?” she murmurs.

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Much,” he says, turning to face her.

Asha settles a hip against the weathered stone, studying him. When she thinks of the man that she’d watched pace the floor of his office, eyes manic and mouth full of unsteady, mirthless laughter, Cullen seems almost a different person entirely now. A phantom ache throbs between her ribs. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Is it always like that for you?”

Cullen looks away for a moment, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “No,” he admits, though it sounds like a difficult accomplishment. “The pain comes and goes, and I can usually manage, but… Sometimes, I feel as though I am… back there. In Kinloch.”

“I wondered,” Asha murmurs, thinking of the way that he seems to disappear into his thoughts at times, in an unsettling way. She is not a stranger to the feeling; it happens to her sometimes, though usually just in the waking moments after a dream about Redcliffe, or the Nightmare’s lair, or the worst parts of her childhood. But to endure it in the waking hours is a type of torture that she can hardly imagine. “Is there anything that makes it worse?”

“Some things,” Cullen replies. “Certain sounds, or smells. Dark, very closed spaces.” He hesitates for a moment, but then admits, “I have not been responsible with my health since Adamant, however.”

“I noticed,” Asha says, and the dry tone of voice makes him bite his lip, stifling a breath of laughter. She shakes her head, eyes glimmering. “I hadn’t considered that before, though. What that must’ve been like for you--demon thralls and--”

“You should not have to make special considerations for my sake,” he says, meaning it wholeheartedly. His throat works for a moment, reluctance flickering in his eyes. “In truth, it wasn’t that which… brought out the worst of it.”

A pregnant pause stretches between them; Asha arches a thick brow, waiting.

Cullen wets his lips and confesses, “The more I pushed myself to endure, the easier it was to tell myself that if I were taking the lyrium again, I might have… I might have been able to keep you safer at Adamant. I might have been able to do more against the Warden mages that had their minds taken, against the demons. Against Erimond. If I had just been more capable, you might not have fallen off of that bridge.”

It is clearly a difficult thing for him to admit--both because he seems ashamed of himself for allowing such thoughts to consume him, but also because a small part of him believes it still.

Asha reaches out without a second thought, carefully laying the palm of her hand against the top of his own, where it rests against the pommel of his sword. He winces at the touch, but he does not pull away. “You and Cassandra are the worst offenders of this,” she remarks nonchalantly. “I would throw myself from the edge of that bridge every time if it meant none of you would ever fall in after me, despite what waited for me past that rift. And you would blame yourself for it.” A teasing lilt creeps into her voice, then. “Perhaps that should stop.”

“Perhaps you might try not walking into danger wherever you find it,” he retorts.

Asha snorts. “Unlikely.” She leans towards him, then, her lovely eyes glittering under thick lashes. A little closer, and she’d be able to lay her head against his chest--a thought that doesn’t shame him half as much as it should when it crosses his mind. “I suppose you’ll have to change your way of thinking, then. Easier said than done, I know.”

“You are not wrong,” Cullen murmurs. “I should not have pushed myself so far, that day. That you came to see me when you did, it was… I was…” His tongue stumbles, falters over the words. Though he’d wanted to say much to her--most of it expressions of gratitude, and a little bit of fumbling affection, a desire to ask after her own well-being--none of it comes to mind now. He exhales sharply, brow furrowing. “This sounded much better in my head,” he mutters.

Asha presses a hand to her mouth, swallowing a laugh. “I’m sure most things do.”

Cullen’s brows climb so high they risk disappearing into his hairline. The look on his face tugs a laugh from her then, the sound bursting bright and rich from her lips. He scoffs good-naturedly. “You wound me, my lady.”

“I am sorry, Messere,” Asha replies, not sounding it one bit. The mocking formality makes him want to laugh as well.

And that--that she can affect him so, tugging these somewhat foreign and achingly sweet feelings from him--makes his gaze tender, gentles his voice when he says, “I do owe you my thanks. Were it not for you, I don’t know that I would have--”

“Give yourself a little credit,” she interrupts, not unkindly, but with enough meaning to the words that he knows they are just a shade shy of an admonishment. Somehow, all that does is flatter him, in the strangest way--that such an insignificant thing like his own lack of regard for himself is enough to irritate her. She rolls her eyes and amends, “More than a little. You come as far as you do--and can go farther--because of who you are. Not because I appear at lucky times in the doorway.”

“Thank you,” Cullen says, lamely, after a long silence. His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton--his head, too, except there is still enough room for Asha’s praise to echo, over and over. And then, from before--

_“I believe in the man that you are now, Cullen. Very much so.”_

It’s really not that difficult to feel so passionately about her, as he does, when she says things like that. When she brushes gentle fingers through his hair and whispers soothingly to him in Elvhen. _‘Maker, I should not be thinking like this.’_

But he does anyway. Cannot stop--especially not now that his head is so blessedly empty of the song or the dull pound of a headache, vision no longer unfocused because there is hardly any pain in this rare, good day. Not now that he can see every elegant, curving line of the branches tattooed upon her face, every glimmer of pale color mixed with the dusky shades of her eyes. Not when she is so close that the clean, sweet scent of her--mild and floral from whatever plants she’d been working with--envelops him.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Asha murmurs, studying him just as closely as he studies her. She watches faint color bloom on his cheeks, wants to smile because of that and the way that her heart skips in her chest.

“I am,” Cullen says, sounding the most serene that she thinks she’s ever heard him. He glances away from her, then, gaze falling to the snowy peaks that surround the fortress. The warm look that he’d worn fades a bit, replaced by solemn thought. Asha waits for him, silent. “I’ve never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden’s Circle,” he admits quietly.

He turns away fully, then, and Asha lets her hand fall away from his. Though he faces the Frostbacks, she keeps her back against the parapet--but she doesn’t fully distance herself, their arms pressed together and her gaze still on his face.

Cullen doesn’t shy away from the touch--he is keenly aware of it, in fact, but keeps himself from leaning towards it like he wants to. He’s hardly earned the right to freely accept all of the kindness that she gives him, no matter how high her opinion of him.

Though Asha has undoubtedly already come to this conclusion, he still admits, “I was… different, after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me. And I’m not proud of the man that made me.” His gaze flicks sidelong to her for a moment--to the space upon her back where her staff usually rests. There is no rush of relief, no knot in his gut that loosens when he sees that it isn’t there--instead, he only wonders where she’d left it.

That Cullen no longer feels glad to see a mage without their weapon is nowhere near enough to make up for even a single thing that he’d done or thought during those dark years, but it is one of many small steps in the right direction. As is his honesty, he hopes, when he says, “The way that I saw mages… I doubt I would have cared about you. And the thought of that _sickens_ me.”

He realizes, belatedly, that he couldn’t possibly have sounded more taken with her if he’d tried.

The reaction that his words pull from Asha is an odd one; her chest feels tight, full to bursting because knowing that he cares for her and hearing him say it aloud produce entirely different sensations. And there’s a touch of pain, a sharp sting at the thought of the kind of man that he used to be. “I wouldn’t have cared about you either,” she says, careful but honest. It isn’t a crime, that--even when the honesty exposes ugly things. “But that is the past.”

“It is,” Cullen says. He can’t quite manage to look at her when he continues, “I have been trying to put some distance between myself and what happened. I will continue to do so. I--” His breath hitches for a moment, throat working. Nothing ventured, nothing gained--though he isn’t sure what he’s hoping to gain. “I would like to… be worthy of your good faith.”

“Oh, Cullen,” Asha murmurs, his name half a sigh. The trip hammer beat of her heart is a near-constant thing, now--it only takes a moment for her to decide that she isn’t unwilling to let him know just what she feels for him. Whatever he chooses to do with that knowledge, however, is not something she would ever try to control. “You already are.”

Cullen blinks hard, a half-disbelieving and half-hopeful gaze falling on her face. He turns slightly, towards her. He is hesitant, as though he isn’t certain that he’s heard her right when he asks, “Even after…?”

Asha wets her lips, swallows past the tight bundle of nerves that has corkscrewed its way into her throat, twisting. Da’lath’in she may be--but she isn’t naive nor a child. She is a woman grown, a woman who takes a deliberate step towards him, craning her neck to look up at him with half-lidded eyes. “I care about you, Cullen,” she murmurs, ears twitching at the sound of his breath catching in his throat, watching the way his eyes go wide. Heat flickers through her--radiates from her, unbidden. “You’ve done nothing to change that.”

The color that flares to life in his cheeks is nothing short of impressive. His heartbeat is so loud in his ears that he’s certain she can hear it--certain anyone would, if they were to walk by right now. He manages a slightly strangled, “Thank you.” Cullen’s thoughts fragment, disjointed as he wonders if this is what he thinks--what he hopes--it is. If he oversteps, if it would be too much to ask if he might take just a little more of her time, spend an hour--or maybe even a few--standing on the battlements with her, like this.

Surely it’s all he could ever ask of her. Surely.

But Asha is still so close. She watches him, a knowing glitter in her eyes, pinning him in place with her gaze. The silence stretches taut between them, a flutter in the pit of her gut. And then she says, gently, “You know I care for you.”

What feels like dozens of moments flit through his mind--a cold meeting, greetings, the chill bite of the wind in Haven all the times they’d passed each other, watched each other. All the times he’d seen her in the apothecary, watched her hands, caught her gaze, caught the sting of her mistrust before it had melted away, turned to something else. Something more.

Hundreds of moments--glances over the war table, a good-natured roll of her eyes when he suggests something that she finds ridiculous, a warm smile when he pleasantly surprises her. Dozens of letters, correspondence coming so easily with her when he can hardly even manage a brief missive to his sister to let her know that he’s alive. Hand-drawn maps, and handmade compresses, and a little glass halla that he’s tucked into the drawer where he used to keep his lyrium kit.

She is so lovely. That is plain for anyone with eyes in their head to see; even he, with his reticence to linger on thoughts of the physical--a result of years of strict Chantry teachings telling him that his mind and body both belonged to the Maker--had grown aware of it months ago. Remained aware of it, always.

But this is about so much more than that--than the look of her, beguiling eyes and full, dark lips. Thick, curling hair, partly bound, fluttering in the breeze. Her poise, the lean lines of her arms and legs, the soft curve of her hips, the grace of her--like a dancer--whether she walks through the courtyard or fights through a battlefield. Perhaps that had all been what had caught his attention--but it had been so much more that had caught his heart and kept it still.

“I can’t say I haven’t… hoped,” Cullen confesses at long last, the words thick and stilted on his tongue. He looks away from her as soon as he says them, not sure he can bear it if he’s somehow gotten this all wrong. His voice is uneven when he adds, “That I haven’t wondered what it would be like.”

Joy blooms in Asha like the herbs in her garden, vibrant and growing ever higher, climbing around her heart, tangling her up in the sensation. Her breath quivers from her in wisps of steam, her face flaming. She moves her hands to rest on the cool stone behind her, pressing her palms to it so that the feel of it might ground her. “What’s stopping you?” she whispers, aware that she treads an unknown path.

“You’re the Inquisitor,” Cullen says automatically. She outranks him, and the headache that would befall Josephine would no doubt be spectacular if word spread that the commander of the Inquisition were courting his superior. But there is no sudden light that dawns in Asha’s eyes, and he realizes that she’s already considered this. “We’re at war,” he adds, a bit weakly. “And you are…”

The only movement from her is a slow arch of her brow. “I am…?” she prompts.

He swallows hard. “You are the kind of woman who… Who could easily find a… a man worthy of you,” he says, shame curling dark and heavy in him, spilling from his lips.

Her voice is unbelievably light, gaze intent when she responds, “But I have.”

Cullen feels that tremor in his bones, reeling from the force with which those three little words have struck him. He gapes at her, color high in his cheeks. Every argument for why he should have kept his feelings a secret, for why it would never happen, would be a bad idea if it did--why he would never be worthy--does not seem to matter. Asha would pluck them all from the air and shred them to pieces.

“I didn’t think it was possible,” he says, his hope as fragile as a sparrow’s wing.

“And yet I’m still here,” Asha murmurs--the faintest nudge. If this isn’t what he wants--if he would rather not--she will understand. It will hurt, but Asha can see the same rigid cage around himself that she’d placed around her, decades ago, when she’d told herself that she didn’t deserve any kind of affection. When she had decided that she didn’t need to seek it out--that it would be better if she didn’t.

Her cage had long since crumbled to dust, but Cullen might still keep his intact. Or at least, that is what she thinks--until he takes a step towards her. “So you are,” he says, a shiver skittering down her spine at the low rumble of his voice. His eyes are golden, burning in the midday light.

He takes another step, and Asha’s eyes slide shut when his hands come to rest on her waist.

 _‘Oh Creators,’_ she thinks weakly, blinking as though she wakes from a daze; Cullen is so close, inching closer, that surely he can see the stars in her eyes. She can see the heat in his, can feel it pulsing in her. Her mouth parts in a sigh when his fingers press into the softness of her hips; his gaze shoots to her lips.

“It seems too much to ask,” he says hoarsely. It’s an opening, albeit a flimsy one. He’s got his hands ‘round her, face so close that he can see every dip in the scars on her skin, can feel her breath coming as quick and hot as his own--but he still has to say it. To give her a chance, a choice, if this isn’t what she wants.

But Asha’s whisper is sharp, makes him shudder with its ferocity. “I want you to.”

Cullen’s eyes darken, his grip on her waist tightening; her pleased gasp nearly undoes him, makes his voice raw and ragged when the last, thin thread of his self-control snaps neatly and he says, “I want to as well.”

He casts a shadow over her, bending to meet her as she rises onto her toes, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting--

The noisy creak of the door to Cullen’s office being pushed open shatters the silence; their eyes pop open, and the temperature around them plummets harshly--Asha’s involuntary doing--when a scout calls, “Commander!”

“Fenedhis,” Asha hisses, hanging her head--or attempting to, anyway, because Cullen does the same, and their foreheads thump together. Asha sinks her teeth deep into her lip to bite back a laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Cullen pulls away, jaw clenching, looking as though he can’t decide whether he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole, or swallow the hapless scout who walks towards them with his face buried in a report.

“You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report,” the scout says, glancing up from the page only briefly.

“ _What_?” Cullen snarls, and Asha rolls her eyes skyward.

 _‘Don’t laugh,_ ’ she thinks--although she would really rather laugh than acknowledge the sharp bite of disappointment at the loss of what she is certain would have been a wonderful kiss. _‘This_ would _happen right now.’_

“Sister Leliana’s report,” the scout repeats, voice faltering as he glances up again and sees whatever dangerous glower Asha is certain that Cullen is wearing. “You wanted it delivered… without delay…” The man trails off and glances over Cullen’s shoulder, meeting her eyes. He blinks, bewildered.

Asha gives him a single, slow shake of her head.

Panic rapidly overtakes his features; he backs away a bit before turning on his heel, stammering, “Or--to your office! Right!”

The both of them watch the scout go--the poor man breaks into a dead run at the end, slamming the door to the office shut behind him. Silence falls over them. Cullen’s shoulders are rigid, his hands balled into fists. Asha watches him turn, slowly, looking over his shoulder at her.

She can’t help it; a breathy giggle escapes her, bubbling forth, her eyes shining. She claps a hand over her mouth, shaking her head--this is utterly _ridiculous_.

The sound does something to him, though--makes something spark to life in his eyes as he rounds on her, takes a deliberate step in her direction. “Are you laughing at me, my lady?” he murmurs, the heat not entirely gone from his voice.

Asha’s breath hitches in her throat; her hand drops from her mouth as she takes a step back and finds nothing but cool stone behind her. Sparks sizzle beneath her skin. “I would _never_ laugh at you, ser,” she says, mocking, goading him; she wants that fire back.

Cullen’s eyes glitter dangerously as he takes another step towards her, and then one more--and then a heavy hand is on her waist again. “Really,” he murmurs lowly, matching her wickedly teasing tone.

That pulls another laugh from her, rich and throaty. Cullen’s eyes flash, pupils going wide--and that is all the warning that Asha has before his free hand is buried in her hair, grip curling over the back of her neck as he tugs her to him and slants his mouth over hers, swallowing her delighted sigh.

Asha feels like there are embers in her mouth, on her tongue, burning where their lips move together. Cullen kisses her with the desperate ferocity of a man who’s thought about this and more for a long time--and Asha isn’t one to not reciprocate, not when she’s wanted this for longer than she’d been willing to admit, right up until it had been too much to hold back. She reaches up, buries a hand in the thick of his hair and eagerly presses close until there is nothing left between them.

When they part at last, it’s with a quiet groan from him and a soft sigh from her. Cullen blinks, dazed, feeling an unnatural warmth tingling in his lips. “I’m sorry,” he blurts unthinkingly, taken aback by the intensity of his own passion. But Asha doesn’t seem remotely bothered, her mouth curling in a languid smile. The sight of it makes him want to kiss her again--and again, and again. He flushes, murmuring, “That was, um… really nice.”

Asha lets out a soft breath of laughter--gentle, this time, the fire faded to something sweet in the warmth that blooms in her chest. She blinks, stares up at him as she brings her hand to his cheek, thumb tracing the curve, feeling the heat under his skin. “You don’t regret it, do you?” she asks--has to. She has to be the one to give him the opening, now--to tell her if he has any doubts.

But Cullen cups her face with gentle hands, looking at her as though it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard come out of her mouth. “No,” he breathes, leaning down, pressing their foreheads together. “Not at all.”

When their lips meet again, it’s softer, not so desperate. There’s no need for it--nobody comes to disturb them, and neither of them have to wonder if this is the only chance they have to experience this feeling. Asha would happily drown in the sensations--the hot desire curling low in her belly, the tender press of his mouth to hers, the half-possessive and half-reverent way that he grips her.

She has never felt this way about a man before--any man, not just a human one. But it’s nothing, she thinks. Whatever uncertainty there had been is nothing, now, when Cullen presses her against the stone, and she wraps her arms around his waist.

For this moment, however long it lasts, everything else is forgotten. The threats that loom over them--the many things that the Inquisition, and Asha as its leader, must deal with--cannot touch them. The responsibilities will settle on their shoulders once again, but for now, they have shared feelings, shared touches, and not entirely covert kisses.

It’s far more than either of them had dared to hope for. Yet somehow, it is real.

 

XXX

 

_Mia,_

_Forgive me for not writing you sooner. I am aware that those words hardly make up for how long it has been--but I will endeavor to do better in the future._

_I will not lie; things were difficult for a long time. I know the stories of Haven and Adamant have long since reached you, and I would spare you the details. My health--_ (Here, a short scribble.)-- _declined, for a time. But I assure you, I feel well enough now--though I doubt that will stop you from worrying._

(Here, a splotch of ink.) _It is difficult to write. More than I had anticipated. And yes, it does have to do with the Templars and why I left them. Yes, I meant something more by it--but no, I do not have enough time to explain. I’m not entirely sure I can--at least, not in a way that would make enough sense. Only know that I am far better for having left the Order, and that more letters will come. Asha will not let it go if I put off writing--and in truth, I feel most inadequate every time she sends yet another letter to her clan when all I’ve done is reread yours many times over._

(Here, an even larger splotch of ink.) _I am happy to hear from you, and to know that you all are well. Despite my distance, a thing which I regret, I think of you all often. I know it isn’t what you want to hear, but danger is part and parcel of this job, considering the scope of what we are trying to accomplish. Restoring peace is certainly the loftiest of goals, but if anyone can manage it, it is Asha. As long as she leads us, you need not worry quite so much._

_I would ask that you all stay safe as well._

_\-- Cullen_

 

_Cullen,_

_I was so glad to receive your last letter. You sound happy. It’s been--_ (Here, an unintelligible scribble.) _\--Never mind. I just hope that you are well. Which reminds me…_

_Asha? Not Inquisitor? Not Her Worship, the Herald of Andraste? It might have been the longest letter you’ve written in years, but it was still far too short._

_Love,_

_Mia._

 

_Mia,_

_If I ever sincerely referred to her as Her Worship, the Herald of Andraste, she would either laugh in my face or tip an inkpot onto all of my half-finished reports. Her words. I’m not inclined to find out which. I will write you a longer letter when there’s time. Stop prying._

_\-- Cullen_

 

XXX

 

_Da’len,_

_A letter from you always brings us great joy. I have passed along your well wishes to the clan, and the herbs you’ve sent will be of great use. Though we remain a fair distance from Wycome, we have seen an increase in trade with the humans from the city. Many ask for spindleweed--it seems as though there is a sickness passing through. I assure you that we are being careful, and none in the clan have taken ill, but it will do my heart good to be able to provide more aid to those who seek us out._

_I understand how difficult it must have been for you to write about Ellana. It has been many years since we last spoke of her. I grieve still when I think of her, as do you, I’m sure. But da’lath’in, your letter brought me joy--as strange as that may seem. You know when we sing to our dead, we make a promise that we will live well for them. We promise that we will feel joy, that we will laugh, that we will love--because those are the things that they would want for us._

_I know that did not ever come easy for you, after. Guilt shadowed many things for you. You remember--I have watched over you all your life. To hear at last what truly happened to you when you fell into the Fade--da’len, I am so sorry that you were made to endure such horrors. I wish that you might’ve told me before, but it matters that you were brave enough to tell me at all. You have always been strong, Asha. I know you believe this is not so, but I speak the truth. That is, I think, Mythal’s blessing upon you as well as what you inherited from your mother._

_It does my heart much good, though, to hear that you have come through this as resilient as ever, and stronger than before. And I am most glad to know that you are finding joy where you can, and that you appear to have many in your Inquisition who care as deeply for you as we in the clan do._

_On that note... I understand it must also have been difficult--to say the very least--for you to write about your commander. Your words were shaky on the page, da’lath’in. But I say to you, sincerely, have no fear. I admit, it was a surprise. And yet, it was not as much of one as it should have been. I have a great many questions--but those can wait for another time._

_This is serious for you, Asha. That much, I know. You were never a fickle girl, never one to get swept up in infatuation. That was the one thing that you closed yourself off to. So that you have found this now, in the most unlikely place, with perhaps the most unlikely person--that matters more than my or anyone else’s opinion, whatever we might’ve expected from you. This brings you joy. With the state of this world, my only hope is for you to find and keep happiness--wherever, and with whomever you choose._

_Ane revas. You were named for that fact. So be free, da’lath’in. You have a good heart, so let it guide you. Even if it takes you to strange places. Fear nothing from us, or anyone--do what you know to be right. Be true to who you are._

_You are the pride of Clan Lavellan. You have done nothing to change that. Mythal’enaste, dear Asha; I hope to hear from you again soon._

_\-- Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh finally?? At long last??? Also. My personal characterization of Clan Lavellan is not one where they are anti-human, though it is kind of an unspoken expectation that elves don't take part in an interracial relationship. But hey, there are bigger things to worry about in the end times--and more than they care about upholding that particular 'tradition', they care about their people and their people's happiness.
> 
> Elvhen translation:  
> "Fenedhis." - Lit. wolf cock. A swear.  
> "Ane revas." - You are free.
> 
> Up next: a romance? In MY Inquisition? It's more likely than you think.


	19. Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ll not have to worry about my clan storming the gates, if that is a concern,” she teases, and an amused huff escapes him. “But it was important to me, to let her know. Considering I am serious, and you… You were not as much of a surprise as you should have been, she said.”
> 
> “Oh?” Cullen repeats, sounding far more interested this time. Asha laughs, shaking her head.
> 
> “Deflate your ego, Messere,” she teases, giving his hand a pinch that he can hardly feel through the leather of his gloves. “I wrote of you as I write of everyone.” A beat passes, and then she says, “At first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was intended to be a mostly serious chapter, but then they were, like... In a budding relationship, kissing and shit. Anyways, I'm still satisfied, lmao.

_"Wild love._  
_My love, I don't know if it's good for you,_  
 _but I know_  
 _that it's wild love."_  
**\-- 'Wild Love' by Cashmere Cat ft. The Weeknd**

* * *

 

“ _Cullen_ ,” comes the teasing sing-song of Asha’s voice.

The corners of his mouth twitch; the soft scratch of his quill against the page of a supply requisition for troops at Griffon Wing Keep resumes, and it is all he can do to keep his eyes on his work instead of sparing another glance over the edge of his desk. “It’s not my fault,” he mutters, only a little bit exasperated.

The sound of Asha’s laugh, chiming and brief, floats up to him. She sits cross-legged on the floor, her back pressed to the side of his desk--out of the way if anyone comes through his office. Though with the hour growing late, it isn’t likely that they’ll be disturbed. The page of the botanical compendium that rests in her lap rustles when she flips to the next. He can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “I can stop.”

Cullen’s throat works for a moment, but he manages--without sounding too much like a lovesick fool, he hopes--to say, “Please don’t.”

Another huff of laughter escapes her, and she responds, “Keep working, then.” But barely another moment passes before the soft sound of her humming fills the air--an unfamiliar, soothing Dalish tune.

At first, Cullen had wondered if she was doing it on purpose--but she’d looked so confused when she’d peered up at him and asked him if he was alright, because he’d stopped writing to stare at her, that he’d realized it was just something that she does when absorbed in her reading. Around the war table, reports are always brief, skimmed over--but here, her gaze carefully follows the trail her finger leaves over impossibly small text next to detailed depictions of herbs and flowers, idle melodies spilling from her lips.

He’s more than a little enamored with the sound of her voice. If he’s honest with himself, he has always been greedy for these moments. More so, now. But every time he pauses to listen, Asha catches him, chastises him--though she smiles when it happens.

After a long while in which Cullen tries to hear her quiet song and continue working at the same time--with only moderate success--he murmurs, “Perhaps you should take part in the choir.”

Asha snorts. “The _Sing-quisition_ ,” she drawls, and Cullen cannot help but crack a smile. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I would never, my lady.” The phrase makes his gut flutter; the meaning is so much sweeter, now.

“You are the one who learned all of the Chantry hymns,” she retorts, twisting and craning her neck to look at him. Of course, now is the moment when he chooses to keep his eyes on his work, smirking. Asha rolls her eyes, turning back to her book. “I think they would prefer you to me, for that,” she remarks, studying a detailed sketch of a dragonthorn root. “All I know are Dalish songs--and I shudder to think of how butchered they would be if I taught them any.”

Cullen chuckles softly, signing the bottom of the requisition and transferring it to the stack of finished papers. He plucks a page from the top of another, larger stack--unfinished ones. The only thing keeping him from releasing a tired sigh is the fact that he at least has good company while he works. “You know one hymn,” he points out.

“Oh, I think they’ve banned that from their repertoire,” Asha says, shaking her head. “Like ‘Andraste’s Mabari.' It’s hard to sing well when you’re crying.” The silence returns for a few moments, and then she adds, “I do know ‘The Girl in Red Crossing,’ though.”

Cullen blinks; he knows _of_ the folk song, knows that it’s a sad one about the attack on a village that triggered an Exalted March against the Dales. “That one?” he asks, wincing as soon as the baffled words leave his mouth.

But Asha doesn’t seem bothered. “Oh, I know,” she says breezily, flipping to the next page of her book. “But it is lovely. And it sounds so much like one of the Dalish folk songs I heard once at the Arlathvhen--though I forgot the name, and it was passed on to another clan--that I found myself interested in it.” She leans around the side of the desk again, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “And the first time I heard the choir practicing it and stopped in to listen, they all looked so awkward that I stayed and made them sing it all to me. So, now I know it.”

“Of course,” he says, biting back a smile--failing at it when she giggles, and the sound makes his heart squeeze. A beat passes, and then he asks, “What does that term mean?”

It takes Asha a moment, but her eyes soften when she realizes. He’s asked or made guesses, before, about some of the words or phrases that she says in Elvhen. But now, it feels a bit different--quite nice, because they are close but still learning about each other, and now neither of them have to wonder if it’s because there is anything _more_. Now, they know. And when he takes an interest in the language, it makes her heart flutter. “Arlathvhen?” she murmurs.

Cullen nods, hesitating a moment. “Arlathvhen,” he repeats, a bit awkward and not entirely correct--not that she’d expected it to be. She doesn’t tease him about it, though, merely smiles wider, her eyes shining.

“It is a meeting,” she explains. “Between the Keepers of the clans.”

“All of them?”

“Oh Creators, no,” Asha says, shaking her head. “As wonderful as that might be, it’s also impossible. We are all too scattered to ever manage that.” A bit of melancholy creeps into her voice at that, but Asha sighs gently through her nose and ignores it. “It’s between however many clans there are in a region--though as you can expect, there aren’t always _that_ many, and I assume some are missed because of how often we move. But it is still a wonderful experience. The Keepers convene to share knowledge with each other--but the craftsmen also trade goods and techniques as well. It only happens once every ten years--only for two days, then, because you can imagine how such a large gathering of elves makes nearby human settlements feel,” she finishes with a wry laugh.

“So it is…” Cullen begins, words faltering and fading when he tries to think of how best to equate it to what he knows, to understand. “Somewhat like a festival, almost? Like Wintersend?”

Asha glances up from her book, brows furrowed. “Remind me which one Wintersend is.”

“At the beginning of the second month,” he answers, and Asha lets out a soft ‘ah’ of recognition. His lips quirk up at the corners, a faint memory from simpler times in the back of his mind, and he says, “In Honnleath, there were merchants and troupes who set up in the square for trade and performances. But mostly, it was our families exchanging goods with one another.”

“Then yes,” Asha says, returning to her reading. “It is a bit like that. Though, much rarer and not entirely celebratory. I can count the number I have been to on one hand. The last was just two years ago.”

Cullen gapes at her, his work entirely forgotten. “Two years? In the middle of the--”

“The war, yes,” Asha says. Her eyes never leave the page. There’s a strange note in her voice--something that sounds almost wistful. “Hence, not entirely celebratory. Dangerous, really. But it was important, so only the Keepers and Firsts met. We were still able to trade our knowledge, and some artifacts--so it was very worth the risk.”

They fall back into silence after that, Cullen mulling over her words. He supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised--Asha has never been one to shrink back in the face of danger. He can still remember the day that they’d met, the way she hadn’t hesitated to beat down terrors and shades or bite back at him for his own surly attitude. Yet, hearing her talk about the life that she’d had before the Inquisition--the hardships that she didn’t even seem to view as such--only fans the flames of his curiosity.

It’s an unexpected result of their mutual attraction, he supposes. The desire to know as much as he can about her has increased tenfold, now that he’s realized he is allowed to be close to her. Closer than before, at any rate.

“Has it ever bothered you before?” Asha asks, voice low. Cullen blinks, glances over to find her shutting the book and laying it aside before she twists towards him. Her gaze is solemn. “That I’m Dalish?”

“No,” he answers without hesitation. “I hadn’t considered... Elves weren’t treated differently in the Circles I served.”

Asha gives him a mildly withering look. “And how, exactly, were people treated in the Circles you served?” she asks flatly, and he winces.

“Forgive me,” he says, setting down his quill. “That was… foolish, to say the least. What I meant was, the idea that I should treat you any differently because of that has never crossed my mind. I didn’t think what it might mean to you. That doesn’t--” His words die abruptly, and he blinks hard. His tone is apprehensive when he asks, very quietly, “ _Does_ it bother you?”

Asha snorts, and the inelegant sound eases the tension in Cullen’s shoulders. She pushes herself up, rounding the corner of the desk and nudging aside a pile of maps to leave just enough space for her to perch on the edge. The way he is looking at her right now, she doubts it’s a problem--but she still says, “Only if you aren’t serious. About…” The word is more difficult to get out than she’d anticipated. “Us.”

Deep color blooms high on Cullen’s cheeks. “I am,” he says, reaching for her hand. Asha bites back a smile, glancing down and watching the way that his gloved fingers dwarf her own. So much bigger, yet his touch is feather-light. “If I ever seem… unsure… It’s because it has been a long time since I’ve wanted anyone in my life. And I wasn’t expecting to find that here.” His eyes shine in the dim candlelight when she meets his gaze again. “Or you.”

The reverence with which he says that puts fire in Asha’s blood. She squeezes his hand, gently, a tremulous smile on her face. “Likewise,” she lilts, and his answering chuckle is honey-sweet in her ears. “To all of those things. I have never…” She falters, going quiet.

 _‘I have never what?’_ she thinks, face heating. _‘What can I call this?’_

She would pray to Mythal for an answer, if she thought the goddess might actually respond. But then again, perhaps not. Somehow, the only thought that leaves her more anxious than that of being left in silence is the one in which the All-Mother--the goddess of _love_ \--answers her prayer.

“I have never wanted to be close to anyone like this before,” Asha manages at last, evenly. “For a long time, I thought that I never could.” She worries at her lower lip for a moment before confessing, “And I asked this because I sent a letter to my Keeper.” She watches his face carefully, searching. “About you.”

A fairly long silence passes before he croaks, “Oh?”

“You’ll not have to worry about my clan storming the gates, if that is a concern,” she teases, and an amused huff escapes him. “But it was important to me, to let her know. Considering I am serious, and you… You were not as much of a surprise as you should have been, she said.”

“Oh?” Cullen repeats, sounding far more interested this time. Asha laughs, shaking her head.

“Deflate your ego, Messere,” she teases, giving his hand a pinch that he can hardly feel through the leather of his gloves. “I wrote of you as I write of everyone.” A beat passes, and then she says, “At first.”

He looks entirely too smug for his own good--something which doesn’t irritate her half as much as it amuses her.

“I might have been a little too transparent, I suppose,” Asha admits, running her thumb over the rough surface of his gloves. “Not that I need Keeper Deshanna’s approval; I am not a child, and she does not treat me like one. But I am still relieved that she received the news well enough.”

“Does she… approve?” Cullen asks. He feels as though he might not like the answer--the thought of upsetting Asha’s clan is not a pleasant one--but his worries abate when she gives him a fond smile.

“She doesn’t disapprove,” Asha says. “But she does have questions, all of which I’m sure I will have no escape from when she asks.”

Cullen snorts. “My sister’s last letter to me was similar.”

“Oh?” Asha drawls, a knowing glimmer in her gaze as she watches him. Her smile turns a touch predatory, baring teeth in the way she does when she’s discovered something particularly satisfying.

He clears his throat, feeling his face heat. “Yes, well,” he begins awkwardly. “Apparently, I am not very subtle either.”

“No, you?” Asha asks, reaching out to brush her fingers gently through his hair--every lock somehow still in place despite the busy day and the late hour. Cullen welcomes the touch, his eyes sliding shut and the little pucker of skin between his brows smoothing, stress eased. Her heart squeezes almost painfully in her chest. “The man who ravished the Inquisitor on the battlements in broad daylight?”

His eyes pop open, and he gapes at her for a long moment, throat working. “I did not,” he manages at last, voice hoarse.

Heat curls low in Asha’s gut, pulsing. Her eyes darken--he’d sounded appropriately scandalized at the joke, but she’d caught the hint of intrigue in his tone and gaze. But instead of heeding her base instincts--the powerful, uninhibited desire that urges her to slide off the desk and straight into Cullen’s lap like an indolent cat--she settles for leaning close enough to press a soft kiss against the curve of his jaw. He turns, catching her lips with his own and smiling through the pleased little noise she makes.

“That’s not what the soldiers are saying,” she murmurs when she pulls back, voice husky, warmth on her tongue and fire in her blood.

Cullen groans, the sound not entirely devoid of the sheer want that thrums in his veins. Even so, he makes a face when he looks at her. “I have remained in this office all day precisely because I don’t want to hear what they’re saying.”

Asha presses her fingers to her lips, eyes sparkling. “It bothers you that much?” she asks.

His mouth twists, though he sounds more matter-of-fact than displeased when he replies, “I would prefer my-- _our_ \--private affairs remain that way.” His gaze softens when her hand drops away from her mouth, and he can see the radiance of her smile. “But if there were nothing here for people to talk about… I would regret it more,” he breathes.

Asha cocks her head to the side, ears twitching. “Remember those words when Leliana and Josephine try to wheedle information out of you in the war room,” she teases.

“Andraste preserve me,” Cullen mutters. Asha laughs, dark and low, the sound of it resonating in his chest, shaking away the irritation and leaving him feeling cleaner, quieter. He studies her face, looking up at her for once as she sits on the edge of his desk--the only thing in his vision. Her unbound hair spills in thick waves down her shoulder, her skin glowing warm in the soft light. Cullen finds himself slowly tugging off a glove just so he can reach up and feel the curve of her cheek beneath the pad of his thumb.

Asha’s breath catches in her throat, a shiver of delight running down the length of her spine at his touch. She has always been generous and gentle with her touches--more so now, obviously. But Cullen is not the same, and she’s only just come to understand why in recent days. She would have been fine--more than happy--if all she’d ever had of him were meaningful glances and touches that remained chaste. As long as she'd had something of him.

Yet, there is something more there, simmering under the surface of his skin. He’d let it go earlier on the battlements, when he’d pushed her against the cool stone and kissed her until she was breathless, left her head spinning and body wanting. It’s here now, she thinks, never looking away as she feels him caress her skin. Once, with his hand, and again, with his gaze trailing after the path his finger takes.

“Dhava em,” Asha whispers, the words wrung from her before she can think to stop.

“What does that mean?” Cullen murmurs, his eyes glittering like he already knows the answer.

Asha brings a hand up, dainty fingers trailing over the length of his neck, to the place where his pulse flutters rapidly underneath her touch. She exhales hotly, feeling ripe to bursting in her skin, in every place that he has yet to touch. “Kiss me.”

She hopes it sounds more like a request than a demand--but Cullen doesn’t seem to care, fingers tangling in the softness of her hair, ‘round the back of her head again as he pulls down and draws up, his open mouth on hers. “Again,” he mumbles entreatingly against her lips. She blinks, breathing heavily--and he asks, “Say it again?”

“Dhava em,” she gasps in her own tongue--and then gasps again when he crushes her to him, a rough-grip hand at her hip and his tongue sliding against hers. Wild heat boils in her veins, and something like the flame of a candle flickers in her mouth, burning. She isn’t sure if the moan comes from her or him--maybe both--but she presses close and swallows the sound, the fire, not wanting to draw back but not wanting to frighten him.

Yet when they part, Cullen’s lips are flushed with heat, and his tongue peeks out to swipe across the bottom one. Asha’s eyes remain fixed on the sight, her breath coming hot and quick. “Did I--?” she starts.

“I think,” he answers, his gaze on hers. His lips are tingling from the phantom warmth. Asha studies his face for something--anything not right, out of place--but finds nothing but curiosity, and a touch of muted awe. “It was… not unpleasant,” he admits, unable to piece together better words than that. Unable to articulate how unexpected and powerful it had been, and how the tightness in his gut had been from _need_ , not fear.

He’s not entirely sure how to feel about that. But if every kiss were like that, he can’t imagine that he would ever complain.

Asha gives him a shaky smile, a huff of laughter escaping her. When he smiles back, she reaches out and presses her thumb against his bottom lip--right where he’d tasted the leftover heat of her. “That’s what happens when you ravish me, ma’halla,” she whispers.

“I will grant you that, this time,” Cullen says, looking quite pleased with himself, right before he leans in to kiss her again.

 

XXX

 

The wintry chill of the mountains bites more than usual in the morning, when Asha convenes with her advisors around the war table. She is the last to arrive, decently insulated in bear hide and Everknit wool, woodland-patterned embroidery threaded into the scarf wound around her throat. All of them glance up from their work when she comes through the heavy doors, but it is Cullen who speaks, a little too brightly, “Inquisitor. We were--”

“Eagerly awaiting your presence,” Leliana cuts him off, glancing sidelong at him with a wicked smirk on her face. “Some of us more than others.”

“Oh, are we doing this already?” Asha asks, leaning on her staff and looking impossibly relaxed at the same time that Cullen shoots Leliana a dirty look.

“I wasn’t,” he starts, slowly going red. His gaze darts to Asha, softens at the sight of her and the way that amusement dances in her eyes. She raises a brow. “I mean, I was…” He trails off again, eyes fixed on the way she sinks her teeth into her lower lip, trying not to smile. “We--we have work to do.”

“Very subtle,” Asha says deliberately, nodding. Cullen gives her a warning look, but the corners of his mouth are twitching.

Leliana says nothing more, satisfied with the reaction she’s managed to needle out of Cullen--and admittedly impressed with the way that Asha had let the goading roll off her back like water. It bodes well for her, that she can keep a level head in the face of an intimate topic. With the ball at the Winter Palace looming in the distance, Asha will need to steel herself for any and all manner of gossip and inquiry, much of it far worse than banter around the war table.

Josephine, who’d busied herself with the elegant tea tray on the edge of the table before her, passes Asha a steaming porcelain cup, looking delighted. Asha gives her a mildly incredulous smile, accepting the floral tea with a nod. “Ma serannas, Josie,” she murmurs. “For this, and for not giving me the scolding I expected when I walked in.”

Josephine’s bell-chime laugh is a most pleasant thing, and she waves away the concern with an idle hand as she picks up her writing board. “I am well prepared for this, Your Worship. Any unsavory gossip that threatens the image of the Inquisition will be dealt with, regarding your…” She glances between Asha and Cullen. “Courtship.”

Cullen’s face flames, and Asha accidentally takes a too-big gulp of scalding tea. Her eyes water as she swallows the heat, tries to cool her throat. “I apologize for making your job more difficult than it already is,” she says neutrally--though she certainly isn’t going to regret one bit of it.

“Nonsense,” is Josephine’s breezy reply. She gives them a dazzling smile. “I have little to worry about from within the Inquisition itself.” She glances at Leliana. “And bluster from any allies with unfounded concerns can easily be--”

“Silenced,” Leliana sighs, smiling serenely. There’s a dagger glinting in her hands that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Asha and Cullen share a look. “They’ve thought about this,” she says, a slow smile spreading across her face. Cullen squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You say that like this hasn’t been obvious for quite some time,” Leliana murmurs. Josephine giggles softly.

Cullen lets out an irritated grunt; Asha can see the tips of his ears reddening, and she feels her own face heat. “Be that as it may, I hardly expected either of you to look so pleased about it.” A beat passes, and then she adds, “And I think you can handle any gossip with a bit more subtlety than removing someone’s tongue, since we are on that.”

Leliana shrugs a shoulder, slipping the dagger away. “Of course, Inquisitor,” she says. “Though that suggestion was more for the commander than for you.”

“Me?” Cullen gapes at her, brow furrowing. “Whatever for?”

“Because some things need to be handled precisely and quietly,” Leliana replies matter-of-factly, eyes glittering like pale jewels. “And your temper when you think someone slights our dear Inquisitor is neither of those things.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Asha says, setting down her cup with a decisive clink as she eyes the two of them. “To work, I think. Before my commander expires from embarrassment, please.”

“Very well,” Leliana sighs, still looking a touch smug. She passes a sheaf of notes across the table and motions to one of her markers on the Dales. “Scout Harding’s report on Fairbanks. As you can see, he is not forthcoming with his information--that is reserved for you alone. But, we have eyes on him and his people. They are mostly refugees from the war.”

“In Watcher’s Reach,” Asha murmurs, skimming the report and then scanning the map. From Skyhold to the Emerald Graves on horseback would be a fortnight of travel. Energy hums in her veins, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end; that she would be so lucky, to see such an important place to her people. Such a sacred land. She reaches almost absentmindedly for a blank parchment and inked quill, scribbling a note to herself to bring enough supplies for sketches of the Graves to send to her clan.

“You will be spending quite some time there, I assume,” Leliana remarks, ever observant.

Asha lets out a soft breath of laughter, glancing up at her for a moment. “I will,” she says. “Clan Lavellan has never had the privilege of… being _there_ , though it is a part of our history. I must record everything I can, for the Inquisition and for them.”

Leliana gives her a faintly warm smile. “You are allowed to go more than once, Inquisitor.” She spares Josephine a glance and says, “We may need you back soon enough to prepare for Halamshiral, but after. You are needed there as much as anywhere.”

Asha blinks, her quill stilling and her heart in her throat. “You are right,” she says after a long while, realizing that she might have as many chances as she needs to learn about the area. The precious piece of her people’s history. Her smile is a tremulous thing, warmth pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Well… for this initial trip, then. I think we’ll set out in a week’s time.”

“I will let Scout Harding know to expect you, then,” Leliana says, nodding.

“Good,” she says, and then she looks to Cullen. She can’t help the affectionate little smile she gives him, pleased by the way his gaze softens at that. He passes a missive to her; she glances down at the wax seal, seeing that it is from Redcliffe. She frowns, faintly, and opens the letter.

 

 _As the Inquisition has assumed responsibility for the Mage Rebellion, the Arling of Redcliffe holds you accountable for the losses suffered by our people while providing hospitality to your mage allies._  
  
_\- A freehold in Rainesfere was burned to the ground when a mage inside lost control of his abilities._  
_\- Two farms outside Redcliffe Village suffered crop loss and structural damage due to frost spells._  
_\- Five people in Redcliffe Village were injured by lightning spells cast by panicked children._  
  
_I trust this matter can be concluded without the involvement of the Crown._  
  
_\-- Arl Teagan Guerrin_

 

“Bastard,” Asha spits, voice shaking; she bites down on the crackle of lightning in her mouth, sneering at the letter right before she crumples it in a tight fist and reduces it to a neat pile of ash. She glances up, catches Cullen’s stricken expression. “Oh, not you, ma’halla,” she murmurs, voice gentling. “Arl Teagan.”

“What was in the letter?” Josephine asks, slightly alarmed at the swiftness of Asha’s fury when she had been smiling only moments before.

“The Arling would like reparations,” she snaps, flicking the ash from her fingers. Her jaw clenches. “For a freehold in Rainesfere that burned to the ground when a mage lost control of their magic, for two farms outside of Redcliffe that lost their crops--thanks to the violent apostates in the Witchwood that _I_ eliminated--oh. And for five people who were injured by spells cast by _frightened children_ ,” she snarls, eyes stormy.

A thick silence settles over the room; Asha draws in deep breaths through her nose, calming the fury within--pleased to see that all of them look equally offended by the Arl’s demand. After a long moment, it is Josephine who sighs and offers, “I can arrange to pay reparations. It will require a loan, but--”

“I think not,” Asha cuts her off curtly; Josephine blinks, falling silent. Asha holds out a hand, steadying. “I will not have you taking out a loan to satisfy this thoughtless demand. I am happy to provide aid--but this Inquisition will not indebt itself for the sake of the Arl when he has the audacity to insult us so after we cleared out the fighting, after we kept those refugees safe and fed, and after we eliminated all the Venatori in Redcliffe. And he would threaten us with his King's involvement?” Her eyes flash dangerously. 

“Inquisitor,” comes Cullen’s soft voice; she turns to him, and he doesn’t flinch from the spark in her eyes. “I would be happy to send people to make repairs, if we are not to provide them with coin. That might satisfy the Arl.”

Some of the rigidity melts from her shoulders, and when she exhales, the air from her is cooler. Calmer. Leashing her anger and locking it away, Asha nods once. “Do that,” she murmurs--and then her breath catches, eyes brightening. At Cullen’s questioning look, she says, “And send five crates of dried elfroot. Tell the healers to harvest what they can from the garden--the rest, we can seek from a merchant.”

Cullen’s brows climb high. “ _Five_ crates?”

“One for each person,” Asha replies nonchalantly; across the table, Leliana smirks at her, nodding approvingly. Asha cuts her eyes at Josephine, frowning lightly. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

“In truth, I doubt he will notice the slight,” Josephine says, smiling. “And even if he did, it would not reflect well on him if he were to complain about the Inquisition’s generosity.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement, and her smile widens when she says, “And with that settled, Your Worship, I wanted to speak to you about your appearance at Empress Celene’s ball.”

Asha’s mouth thins, her expression polite but brittle. “Oh?” she murmurs, and she can’t help but glance down at herself. Leather and cloth, footwraps and fingerless gloves, simple and earthy. The grandest things she owns are her Keeper’s robes, which she knows very well that she can’t wear, and the dress meant for her judgments. Lovely, but not suitable. “I assumed that would be left to Vivienne.”

“For the most part,” Josephine replies, nodding. “But I thought it best to ask your opinion on the matter of your dress. And yes, Vivienne agreed--so. Your Worship. Would you prefer Orlesian fashions, or--”

“No,” Asha says, and she turns to gape at Leliana and Cullen, who had spoken at the same time.

“This is not a group discussion,” Josephine huffs. Asha cracks a smile.

Cullen gives her a withering look, saying, “Forgive me if I don’t believe the Inquisitor should be sparing a moment on Orlesians and their ridiculous fashions. We are to be present--ideally--in a diplomatic matter.”

“Ridiculous fashions,” Leliana echoes in a deadpan voice, eyeing his fur mantle. Cullen rolls his eyes at her, and she scoffs before turning to Josephine. “The commander is half right. Publicly, we are there to support the peace talks at court. But that aside, we all know that our true purpose is to ensure that whatever Corypheus has planned for the Empress does not throw Orlais into chaos. And with the eyes of the court on the Inquisitor, she should do more than try to blend in. She must rise above the court, above the Game, to win their support.”

“You have a high opinion of me,” Asha murmurs, faintly stunned. She won’t lie; to hear Leliana speak of her that way does wonders for her confidence--but she doubts it will be enough. She knows little about the rules of Orlais' Grand Game, save that they are fickle and unforgiving, and there is not much time left to learn. “But the lion’s den I’ll be walking into that night does not look kindly on my kind, to say the least. Celene murdered thousands of elves in Halamshiral’s slums. Gaspard is a chevalier--I’ve heard the stories of what their initiations entail. Hunting _rabbits_ for sport.”

The slur is venomous on her lips, her slender ears twitching when she spits it out.

“Think of it, though,” Leliana murmurs, taking a step towards her; something dangerous glimmers in her eyes, snakes its way through her voice. “Inquisitor Lavellan, the picture of everything the court would think beneath them--not only besting them at the Game, but making it known that you hardly cared to play in the first place. That they'll have no choice but to concede that they are beneath you.”

Asha raises a brow. “I thought you didn’t like people turning their noses up at your Game, Sister Nightingale.”

Leliana’s smile is downright predatory. “Only when they have little capacity to succeed at it. I sense that is not the case with you.”

Asha hesitates for a moment--Leliana is different, right now. She is used to seeing the spymaster as cool as ice, expression as smooth as a glassy lake. But now, there is something dangerous in her tone. As dangerous, perhaps, as walking into the Winter Palace with what will no doubt be several targets on her back.

She glances at Cullen; he looks unhappy but has clearly decided not to say anything more. Leliana waits for a response, and when she looks to Josephine, she is mildly surprised to see that her ambassador looks intrigued. She taps her pen on the edge of her writing board, deep in thought. Considering. Planning.

“Alright,” Asha says evenly. She squares her shoulders, holds her head high. Regal. A leader. The Inquisitor. “In that case, Josephine. Let Vivienne know that she can have her seamstress submit whatever designs she thinks are appropriate.” Her eyes flash, lips curling up at the corners. “But their look must be Elven. Distinctly.”

Josephine smiles at her, already making a note of it. “Of course, Your Worship.”

Electricity skitters down the length of Asha’s spine. She had toppled a mountain before--her, small of frame with nothing at her back save for cloth and leather, delicate chain and blood. She’d stared down a self-styled god, spit in his face, told him that the world would crush him--and she would help it along. She’d faced down a Blighted dragon twice and lived, walked the Fade twice and lived.

Her fingers tighten around the grip of her staff, and she smiles with a little too much teeth. The ball at Halamshiral is months out. 

But when it comes, Asha will be ready. Different armor and a different weapon--but if the best way to handle what might become a volatile situation would be to charm the court and beat them all at their own game, then she would learn how to play. To win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting up some plot. I'm eager to address the fact that Celene and Gaspard are both pieces of shit and Lavellan isn't ignorant of that. How exciting.
> 
> Up next: letters.


	20. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra,
> 
> (In a very terse hand.) Explain the dragon.
> 
> \-- Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally planned as an entirely serious chapter. Quite frankly, I have no excuses. Please forgive any errors; I'll edit in the morning, swear. Enjoy.

_"Some had scars and some had scratches._   
_It made me wonder about their past._   
_And as I looked around, I began to notice_   
_that we were nothing like the rest."_   
**\-- 'Mountain Sound' by Of Monsters and Men**

* * *

 

“I was hoping you’d stop by,” Cullen says, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when Asha slips into his office. It is the eve of her departure from Skyhold--two weeks of travel will see her to the Emerald Graves, to Watcher’s Reach where Fairbanks and his refugees wait for her arrival.

Asha smiles at him, watches him step back from his desk and lay his hands against the pommel of his sword. “Is everything alright?”

The warmth fades from his eyes a bit, then--but not because of her. He draws a deep breath and says, “I believe I have gained enough information to know where to begin with weakening the Red Templars.” A beat passes. “And Samson.”

Asha blinks, the smile gone from her face as a solemn air blankets the room; that is a name she hasn’t heard in a long while, and Cullen spits it like it’s poison. She remembers Haven, still--could never forget it. Remembers Cullen’s pale face, watching a large man in even larger armor shot through with red lyrium crest a mountain ridge. The Red Templar general.

The man he had served with in Kirkwall.

“Tell me,” Asha says. It’s not a command; her voice is not hard. She remains where she is, her hands wrapped around the grip of her staff as she braces her weight on it, leaves the desk between them. The lines of his shoulders are hard, immobile, anger simmering under his skin. He doesn’t want affection, does not want to be touched; Asha reads that and waits, patient.

Cullen looks away from her when he says, “Samson was a Templar in Kirkwall, until he was expelled from the Order for smuggling letters from a mage to his sweetheart in the city. He was a decent man, then.” His voice goes harder, like steel forged from the hottest flame. Cutting. “He ended up a beggar on the streets, desperate for dust like the addict that the Order made him.”

Asha manages to keep her expression neutral, but Cullen’s subtle condemnation of the Order is still a surprise, even after all that she has learned. “Is that why he serves Corypheus?” she asks. “The lyrium?”

Cullen’s mouth twists, and it is an internal struggle before he admits, “Corypheus might have flattered his vanity. Gave him a purpose, as well as lyrium. Perhaps that is all it took, for him to…” His brow furrows deeply, a scowl marring his features. “The red lyrium that he feeds his men is _nothing_ like the lyrium given by the Chantry. He’s condemned them to madness. Made them monstrosities. We cannot allow them to gain strength.”

The ugly scar in the center of Asha’s chest begins to burn, dully. She keeps her hand away from it, knowing the sensation is just a phantom memory. Worried that she’ll mistakenly feel slick heat spilling around her fingers if she touches the spot. “Are you angrier at Corypheus, or at Samson?” she asks, quietly cutting his words to ribbons to find the heart of the feeling underneath.

Cullen hesitates for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admits. Asha’s ears twitch; his accent grows thick in his heightened emotions--bitter anger, a touch of weariness, and something she can’t quite place. “Samson, at least, should know better.”

Asha studies him for a moment, fingers flexing around her staff. “So what have you found?” she asks softly. “To start weakening them.”

Cullen lets out a sharp breath, reining in his anger as best he can. “Caravans of red lyrium are being smuggled along trade roads in the Emerald Graves,” he says, and Asha’s eyes narrow at the thought of such a vile thing happening on sacred land. “I know you are there for Fairbanks, but investigating them could lead to us learning where it is being mined.”

“It certainly wouldn’t be from any of the small nodes we’ve discovered thus far,” Asha murmurs, thinking of the random deposits she’s found--and destroyed--in the wild. She cocks her head, mulling over Cullen’s words; though she had buried many in Haven, the Red Templars are still a formidable force. And Asha doubts that Corypheus had been foolish enough to take all of them when they’d marched on Haven.

Wherever their source of red lyrium is, it isn’t anywhere she’s found yet. And wherever it is, it must surely be well-guarded--as with anything connected to it.

“Be wary if you confront the caravans,” Cullen says, voice low; when she glances up at him, she can see the same thought flitting through his mind, concern in his eyes.

 _“Perhaps you might try not walking into danger wherever you find it."_ He’d teased her that way before. The words stick in her mind, the way that the look he is giving her now sticks a fine dart of pain into the tender parts of her heart. Every part for him.

Asha walks into danger because she has to. If the world is to be set to rights again--a thought that almost makes her want to laugh, with the absurd, grand scale of such a goal--then she has no choice. Every action is a risk, done for the greater good. Done so they might succeed.

But she can see that Cullen isn’t happy, being the one to send her into that danger. He understands, of course--but his fingers shake a bit around the curve of his pommel, and that familiar pucker of tension appears between his brows.

Asha doesn’t tell him that it’s going to be alright; platitudes have no place between them, and he would see right through them. Instead, she slowly rounds the desk, smiles when he turns his body towards her, and lays a gentle hand atop his own. His expression goes impossibly soft at the familiar gesture, heart somehow aching and soothed all at once. She will be gone in the morning, he knows.

“Might I bother you and stay a while longer?” she asks, looking up at him through her lashes.

“You are never a bother,” Cullen says, voice thick with warmth. Her soft laughter burrows deep into his chest, settling in the space between his ribs. He turns his palm up, catching her fingers in between his own.

“A lie, but a sweet one,” Asha teases, resting her staff against the edge of his desk. He chuckles, settling down into his chair as her hand slips from his grasp.

She wanders over to his bookshelves, scanning their contents--her fingers trail for a moment over the split in the wood where his fist had struck. She smiles, catching sight of the variety of titles etched in leather bindings. Chantry books, collections of hymns, _‘Of course,'_ she thinks. Also predictable are the books on military strategy, on battles long past--and one rather elegant-looking tome titled _The Legend of Calenhad._

But the one she plucks from the shelf is a small one, plainly bound. A collection of Fereldan folk songs; Asha’s heart swells with warmth when she sees it, and more when she turns around and finds Cullen studying her with the fondest look on his face. He smiles when he sees the book in her hands, and she feels color bloom high on her cheeks.

The door’s latch turns, hinges creaking as it swings open; their gazes break, swiveling to the scout that enters with a letter in his hands. “Report for you, Commander,” he says, right before he spies the ornate staff propped against the desk. He spots her, then, standing by the shelves; his eyes go wide, face flaming as he snaps a sharp salute. “I-Inquisitor.”

Asha does her best not to shoot Cullen an amused look; the poor scout looks mortified and clearly thinks he’s interrupted something. Gossip really had traveled lightning-quick in the barracks and beyond. She nods and says nothing, turning back to the bookshelves and leaving them to it.

“What is it, Bennett?” Cullen asks, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. Or perhaps it’s deliberate, because the scout is gawking at Asha.

“Um,” Bennett stumbles for a moment before squaring his shoulders and presenting the missive to Cullen. “Word from Corporal Norris; that road in the Fallow Mire’s been fixed at last. Should be good for sending troops through, instead of the mountains.”

“Excellent,” Cullen says, and Asha bites back a grin at the excitement in his voice. “Dismissed, Scout Bennett.”

“Ser,” Bennett says, nodding. He glances at Asha, then, and gives her an awkward little bow. “S-Safe travels to you on the morrow, Inquisitor,” he says.

Asha gives him a kind smile, eyes sparkling. Even after all this time, she doubts she will ever get used to how respectful all of these people are to her--but privately, she is relieved that they still behave so, knowing about her and Cullen. “My thanks,” she murmurs with a nod.

Once they are alone again, she finally makes her way to Cullen’s desk and settles happily on the edge, flipping open his book at last. Cullen lets out a soft snort of amusement and says, “I won’t be getting anything done with you sitting there.”

Asha lets out a breath of laughter, her foot nudging his leg. “I did say I was going to bother you. You should learn to heed warnings, Commander.”

Cullen smiles faintly; he doesn’t tell her that it’s still not a bother, that the sight of her so casually in his space--staff against his desk, her in front of him, nicking a book from his shelves--thrills him in a way he’s never felt before. He is not a terribly open man--hasn’t been, ever. Even now, when his body is steadily becoming his own again, senses and reactions returning slowly but surely, no longer dulled by lyrium, it is still difficult. It is still instinctive to retreat, to be distant.

But what he wants with Asha overrides that instinct, beaten as it is into his bones. She looks so _right_ here. He wonders if she looks so comfortable because she is used to making comfort wherever she can, or if it is because of him. He hopes desperately for the latter, his heart leaping into his throat when he watches her and remembers again that she will not be back for a long while.

There is a knot in Cullen’s chest when she glances up at him. She blinks, eyes luminescent in the dimness of his office. “Yes?” she murmurs, whisper-soft.

He swallows hard. “Will you write, Asha?” he asks. Her ears flutter at the sound of her name, and she gives him a radiant smile that burns away the sudden ache in his chest.

“Of course, ma’halla,” she whispers, gently folding the book shut in her lap. He stares at it, at her hands, and then her face, as though he is doing his best to memorize every dip and curve of flesh, everything about her. After a long moment, she leans towards him.

Her kiss releases the iron band of fear that had wrapped itself around his chest without him knowing; it crumbles into nothing, not even dust. The press of her lips against his wipes him clean, makes him feel the closest thing to a whole and worthy man that he’s felt in years. She fills spaces that he hadn’t even noticed were barren until now, when something new and sweet has begun to grow in them like vines from her garden.

 _‘Maker,’_ Cullen thinks, a realization rocking him to his core--spurring him to draw Asha closer, kiss her harder. _‘I could love this woman.’_

 

XXX

 

_Cullen,_

_I hope you are well, ma’halla. We have only just made camp in the Emerald Graves for the night, at a landmark called Andruil’s Wall; tomorrow, we will make our way into Watcher’s Reach to make contact with Fairbanks._

_I never thought, in all my life, that I would find myself standing on such sacred ground. Every single tree of this great forest was planted for an Emerald Knight of Halamshiral, when the Dales still belonged to my people. The forest canopy is so thick at times that not much misty light shines through; it’s strangely quiet, here. But it is so beautiful._

_I cannot really tell anybody else this--especially not Cassandra, who I think would be hurt by it--but it pains me, here. It makes me terribly angry. There is a statue of Andraste nearby, just northeast of our camp. I read the inscription--an excerpt of a speech by Sister Amity, about how Andraste’s light was brought to the Dales. After they slaughtered us, snuffed out our light and penned away what they could of those who were left._

_When I was young, I hated the Chantry so very much. That young part of me wants to smash this statue to pieces and spit on the crumbled stone. I won’t, of course. There is no sense in being angry at people who are long dead. Their deeds, yes--but the people are gone. And as for the Chantry, well. Perhaps it’s naive, but I would like to believe that peace is possible. That maybe someday, people won’t choose to forget that Andraste and Shartan fought side by side. Even if ideals are foolish, I want to hold on to them._

_Oh, I wanted to write you a nice letter. Not a bitter one; I am sorry, ma’halla. You have many burdens to carry without shouldering my own. Allow me to attempt to salvage this by writing about something that isn’t gloomy. I found a cluster of embrium at the south end of the camp--I’ve never seen them bloom so large! I think it is the soil--the earth here is so rich and fragrant, better than Skyhold’s. I don’t even want to pick them, so I’m afraid you’ll stay relying on what grows in my garden. You can see what they look like, though._

_I miss you, Cullen. Very much._

_\-- Asha_

(On a fresh page attached, a detailed sketch of several embrium blossoms in full bloom, and a little, brown nug in the background.)

 

XXX

 

_Keeper Deshanna,_

_It’s unimaginably beautiful here, in the Emerald Graves. I’ve done my best to capture what I can on the parchment, because I don’t think any words I have could ever do enough to describe what it is like to stand in this great forest. I feel very small here, among the trees and the mist. Arbor Blessing hangs from the cliffsides in abundance. Being that Orlais has done what they could to lay claim to what is not theirs, abandoned estates are grouped in some areas--but the deeper into the forest we go, the more nature seizes control over this land._

_There is a statue near one of the villas, actually. Andraste’s Mercy, it’s called--I tried not to be angry when I saw it. There was another, earlier, that I wanted to smash to pieces--but then, I did not have to try. At the feet of the statue, curled and climbing up, was an abundance of elfroot. Strong and beautiful. I left it alone, and I felt better afterwards._

_Cassandra is a devout Andrastian human, Varric is a dwarf who cares little for religion, and Solas is an elf who may think highly of me, but not the Dalish or our ways. We are a most unlikely party for this, if there ever was one. They struggle to understand the pain that I feel as I walk the overgrown forest paths here, and the joy as well._

_But Deshanna, I can’t imagine traveling here without them. I could have thrown caution to the winds and undertaken a solitary expedition here, though it would have been difficult--and everyone, especially Cassandra, would have been furious with me. But I didn’t want to. I would rather be with these people, so very different and prone to tense conversations sometimes, or even bickering--but that is what happens when your dear friends are quite different from yourself and from each other, isn’t it?_

_I do wish you and the clan could be here to see it, though. I wondered if perhaps a Dalish clan might have taken to wandering the area, but I’ve seen no signs yet. For now, I think I am the only Dalish elf in this forest. And I hope that, though you cannot be here in person, perhaps these sketches of landmarks and areas might paint a clear enough picture that you can imagine what it is like. Maybe someday, we all will walk these forest paths together._

_I hope you and the clan are well, Keeper. I hope I will hear from you soon._

_\-- Asha_

(Attached are several pages, overflowing with painstakingly detailed sketches of various landmarks, plants, and natural landscapes from the Emerald Graves. Many have notes scribbled in their margins, describing the drawings.)

 

XXX

 

_Asha,_

_If you shared all of your burdens with me, I would consider myself a most lucky man. I need no apology; I cannot imagine what it must be like for you, there--but anger, I understand._

_It’s not the same, but you have seen my own rage at the Chantry before. That day I asked Cassandra to relieve me from duty, when I went back to my office, I stared at my old lyrium kit and the carved figure of Andraste inside for a long while. And then I could hardly see at all from the anger that blinded me, when I thought of what the Chantry takes away from those who pledge their life to the Maker as I did. How that promise, and our faith, is repaid._

_I’m sure you recall exactly what I did to that kit. I don’t fault you for wanting to smash those statues. I--_ (Here, a brief, sharp scribble.) _\--envy you, Asha. The Chantry has done worse to elves, and yet you keep a level head. You keep your ideals, and your compassion. It took me years to regain mere pieces of mine._

_If the Chantry had more people in it that were like you, the world might be very different. That would be a good thing._

(Here, many spots of ink, where a quill pen has repeatedly been tapped against the page.) _I think of you often. I am not… a very romantic man. I am not good at this. But, I miss you terribly as well. Of course, subtlety escapes me; Sera brought me a piece of cake the other day. She said I looked sad and hungry, now that you are gone. And Cole will not stop dropping little notes on my desk--he means well, I think, but it is unnerving. Bull keeps suggesting that I drink with him. I will not. And Dorian is insufferable during our games--he cheats openly now, thinking that I mope over your absence too much to notice or care._

_Or perhaps that is just his show of friendship. I do find I feel better, after I trounce him in every match--and he looks smug despite his losses._

_Even so, nothing will feel half as good as seeing you again. Be safe, Asha._

_\-- Cullen_

 

XXX

 

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra hisses in her ear, her iron grip so impossibly firm on Asha’s arm that it will surely bruise. “This is a _foolish_ idea.”

“Cassandra,” Asha whispers back, crouched low in the flora with a hand braced against the thick tree that her party hides behind. “That is the last smuggler’s caravan, and I need whatever information they have inside. This is the best option.”

Cassandra’s grip tightens further, a thing that Asha hadn’t thought possible. She winces. For a second, she wonders if the woman is going to shake her, but she only leans in and says, almost desperately, “Those are _giants_.”

“We’ve fought one before--not that it matters, because the whole point of me sneaking over is so that we won’t have to fight them now,” Asha replies matter-of-factly, ignoring the fact that the giant they’d fought on the Storm Coast had been much smaller and half-dead anyway.

“Uh,” Varric begins, his finger on Bianca’s trigger as he observes the many lumbering beasts that tower over them, patrolling this area. “I hate to even think this, much less say it out loud, but Cassandra’s right. This is a bad idea.”

Cassandra releases her arm, then, twisting in her crouch to look at Varric. There is _almost_ something close to appreciation in her eyes. She opens her mouth like she means to speak to him, but a long moment passes in which they stare at each other, and Cassandra shuts her mouth again without saying a thing.

Asha swallows a sigh; their relationship is barely civil, has been so since Adamant despite the fact that everything had been her own fault. But she supposes--hopes very much, really--that this can be called progress. She glances past them, where Solas stays low, hands on his staff and his back to the tree.

Without her even having to ask the question, he glances sidelong at her and answers, “I do not think it would be wise, lethallan.”

Asha does sigh, then, barely a whisper of sound from her lips as she turns to look again at the guarded caravan. Covered, guarded only from the front by a handful of Red Templars--and there is an opening in the flap of the cover that is almost big enough for Asha to slip through, if she’s careful.

She will have to be careful; without another word, she is darting forward on quick, silent feet, out from the cover that the tree provides and staying low to the ground. Her ears catch the sound of Cassandra’s furious, choked breath--oh, Asha is certain than the only thing worse than having the Templars detect her presence as she sneaks up from behind will be the earful that Cassandra will surely give her when they are back at camp.

Asha slows when she gets near the caravan--nearby, the rumbling thud of footsteps from the giants drowns out any sound that she might make, stepping carefully through the lush green, watching for any twigs underfoot. The air is unnaturally warm, here, the thin ring of red lyrium’s twisted song warbling in her ears. Asha holds her breath, puts her hands on the caravan as she crouches low and slowly parts the covering. When the gap in the cloth is wide enough, she crawls inside without a sound.

She can’t see it, but she’s certain that Cassandra is losing her mind right now, so she will need to be quick.

 _‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’_ Asha tells herself, heart pounding as her eyes adjust quickly to the darkness. The crates stored in the caravan are pulsing with heat, and Asha keeps her palm away from their surfaces as she runs her hand through the air, searching. She turns on the spot, a knee and free hand braced on the floor--and her eyes go wide when she spots the little lockbox in the corner.

_‘Yes!’_

Asha snatches it up in a heartbeat and turns towards the exit.

 

XXX

 

 _“I am going to kill you,”_ Cassandra mouths, vehemently pointing at Asha when her head pokes through the flap of the covered caravan. Her hand trembles, heart racing as adrenaline and relief course through her veins; beside her, Varric snorts quietly, shaking his head.

Asha gives her an infuriatingly charming smile and makes a shooing motion with her hands. At Cassandra’s narrowed eyes, she points the way that their party had come and silently mouths, _“Go.”_ When Cassandra hesitates, she does it again, more insistently.

She can’t keep the noise of disgust from escaping her when she turns to Varric and Solas, jerking her head in the direction that Asha points them to and muttering, “She says to move.” They’ve taken all but a dozen careful steps in that direction before the crackle and roar of a sudden inferno comes to life, and the smell of burning wood and something vile hits them.

Cassandra swivels around--and admittedly, the sound that she makes is more of an outraged squawk than anything when the sight that greets her is Asha running at full tilt towards them, a lockbox in her arms and the caravan going up in flames behind her.

“Holy shit,” Varric says. Solas actually laughs.

“I am going to _kill_ you!” Cassandra snarls, reaching out to grab Asha by the back of her robes; Asha dances out of her grasp, still wearing that damned smile. Behind them, the nearby giants roar as they set upon the caravan, and the Red Templars are shouting--but they can’t give chase. It is the perfect opportunity to escape.

“You’re going to have to catch me first!” Asha laughs, zooming ahead, darting through the trees like she knows exactly where she’s going--would probably know with her eyes closed. An arrow whistles past, missing her by a pathetically wide margin.

“Oh, I will!” Cassandra shouts, racing after her, Varric and Solas somehow managing to keep up with her furious pace. Something wild and uncontrolled swells in her breast, beating a triphammer rhythm and nearly bubbling out of her when she continues, “And when I do, I’ll--”

“The dungeon!” Asha calls over her shoulder, startling several nugs from a nearby bush. “She’s going to toss me in the dungeon again!”

“Chuckles,” Varric wheezes as he falls behind, voice wobbling with the strain of running, and of trying not to laugh. “Five silvers says the Seeker flings her headfirst off the battlements.”

“Cassandra is not going to wait that long to inflict bodily harm on her for this.”

“I’m going to stuff you into a crate and ship you back to Skyhold!” she shouts, nearly getting smacked in the face by an errant branch; she is gaining on Asha, breathless but pressing on. “Since you can’t be bothered to keep yourself out of trouble! And _then_ I will decide whether or not I’m going to toss you from the battlements!”

Asha lets out a shriek of laughter when Cassandra catches up and practically lunges at her, seizing her elbow and twisting her off balance; Asha goes down hard with an ‘ _oomph_ ’ and takes Cassandra with her, the two of them tumbling over in the loamy earth. “Mercy,” she wheezes, tears of mirth in her eyes. She rolls onto her back, using the lockbox to shield herself.

Cassandra’s mouth quivers before a wide grin splits her face. She pushes herself up to her knees, wiping dirt from her cheek and trying not to laugh--but Maker, does she feel like laughing, and it’s a ridiculous and bright feeling, not entirely unfamiliar but certainly unexpected. “It won’t be me you need to beg mercy from--not when Cullen finds out about this.”

Asha blinks, smile freezing. “Cassandra, do not ruin my fun.”

“Yeah, Seeker,” Varric drawls, snorting as he and Solas come up beside them. “How exactly is she supposed to save the world if you and Curly never let her leave the fortress again?”

“Varric, so little faith in me,” Asha says, sitting up with a grunt. She fixes Cassandra with a speculative look, can’t keep the impish smile from creeping on her face at the sight of the mirth on hers. “I’d outwit them if they tried, obviously.”

“Oh, please,” Cassandra scoffs, rising to her feet at last. She extends a hand to Asha, who takes it and hauls herself up, grinning.

“Ma’iovro, you saw me sneak into that caravan--in a fortress as big as Skyhold, I could easily sneak past you and Cullen.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “That is the most wishful th--wait, what did you call me?”

“Ma’iovro?” Asha repeats, eyes twinkling. “It’s a nickname, obviously.”

Cassandra’s cheeks go ruddy. “I gathered,” she snaps, flustered. “Stop being coy.”

Asha presses a hand to her mouth, swallowing a laugh. _‘She’s going to kill me,’_ she thinks, delighted. “Ma’iovro,” she says, doing her best to sound nonchalant as the muscles in her legs tense. “My bear.”

She’s off like a shot through the forest once more, racing in the direction of the nearest camp before Cassandra registers the meaning of the endearment. Her face flames brilliantly, and Solas muffles a suspicious-sounding cough into his hand while Varric doubles over, howling with laughter.

“Shut up, you ass,” she mutters, nearly knocking him into the dirt. Somehow, that only makes him laugh that much harder.

 

XXX

 

_Commander,_

_Are you aware that you are courting a madcap? Because she is positively dancing on my last nerve, and I am wondering how you manage it. Although perhaps this is merely a result of where we are; Asha was quite solemn when we first arrived in the forest, but now, she seems very happy to be here._ _I suppose it will please you to know that we have established enough camps to hold the region, aided those in Watcher’s Reach, gathered your smuggler letters (recklessly), and eliminated the Freemen leaders that had been in control of the area. Asha has collected several journals from their general that I am sure will prove useful._

_All of this, of course, before the dragon--though we did find a most interesting artifact in its nest after all was said and done. You two are frighteningly alike, you know. You fall asleep at your desk only after you’ve done the work of ten men--yes, I know--and she traipses through the wilderness felling enemies and raising our influence left and right and hardly bats an eye._

~~_Maker, I’ve just realized that this sounds like I find her admirable. Ugh, I do. This is disgusting._~~ _Pretend you didn’t read that; I am sure we will be on our way back to Skyhold soon, all in one piece and with a full report._

_\-- Cassandra_

 

_Cassandra,_

(In a very terse hand.) _Explain the dragon._

_\-- Cullen_

 

_Commander,_

_Of course you would latch on to that. Ask her. I am sick of dragons._

_\-- Cassandra_

 

XXX

 

_Asha,_

(In an _extremely_ terse hand.) _Explain the dragon._

_\-- Cullen_

 

_Cullen,_

_Oh, ma’halla, don’t be too angry with me. We killed a dragon. It was the most remarkable shade of blue--like frost shot through with gold, which is actually quite fitting considering it breathed ice instead of fire. Scout Harding tells me that it must have been a Greater Mistral; apparently a cluster of them took flight from the Graves around two decades ago, but one remained. It is gone now, though--obviously--and that is a good thing, considering it would have noticed the Inquisition’s increased presence and likely gone after our camps. I have quite a few materials to show for the accomplishment--although I arranged for people to harvest more from its corpse. I imagine dragonbone and dragonscale would make fine arms and armor. I only took what I could from its nest, as well as a few vials of blood for Dagna._

_Please, know that I am fine. None of us sustained any terrible injuries during the fight, we are currently around a week out from Skyhold, and I will see you very soon. I would tell you not to worry--but that would be pointless, I think. So instead, I will simply tell you that you are always in my thoughts, and I will be a very happy woman indeed once I have you in my arms as well._

_Oh, and before I forget, here is a sketch of the artifact I took from the dragon’s nest. It’s silverite, I think--and in remarkable condition. I’ve never seen anything like it before._

_\-- Asha_

(Attached is a page with a detailed sketch of a heavy helm crafted in the shape of a fierce dragon in flight.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F is for friends who do stuff together.
> 
> Up next: back home.


	21. Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is his armor. He is not a Templar. He is a commander. Her commander. Hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have too many favorite chapters. Anyways, warnings here for the dark matters of Cullen's night terrors, and a brief mention of sexual assault. I'm sorry. Bonus points to anyone who can recognize the chapters I pull text from during the nightmare.

_"I swore I saw you in a dream,_  
_all dressed in white and wide smile."_  
**\-- 'When You Sleep' by Mary Lambert**

* * *

 

“Maker turn his gaze on you; I hope your compassion hasn’t doomed us all.”

Cullen hears the words spill from his lips, bitter and ugly like the sensation crawling in his guts, in his head, in the place where he should have a heart. Had a heart. The air is thick, tastes like blood and rot and the vibration of magic, the hum of the cage grating in his skull.

The elf woman standing in front of him narrows her eyes to fine slits, the deep black ink of bent branches on her forehead standing out against her brown skin. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword. She looks at him like he is no better than a smear of mud on the bottom of her boots.

Cullen blinks, and everything is changed. His lungs fill with chill air, the dampness of the room seeping into his aching bones, his throbbing head. His eyes are already adjusted to the darkness, and instead of the Hero of Fereldan standing before him, it is Meredith Stannard. Eyes blazing, lyrium-glow blue and hard and a fiery sunburst brand in her hands. Her armor shines, the Sword of Mercy radiant.

His armor feels heavy, like it might sink him into the ground. It grinds his bones to dust with the weight of it. He isn’t sure how he is standing. But he _is_ standing, braced on something. Someone--he’s--

 _“Please,”_ sobs the girl on her knees, snot and tears running down her round face as she wails. Her arms tremble, pinned to her back from the strength of Cullen’s grip. _Hold her down._ She jerks once, and then again, and then cries louder. “I’m n-not! N-not a--a _blood m-m-mage! Please!!_ ”

“Your lies cannot save you,” Meredith intones coldly. Cruelly. Cullen hears it so clearly, and his gut roils--why had he not said anything? Why had he allowed this? Why did her words sew his mouth shut and straighten his spine--why, when his stomach had churned and bile had risen in his throat anyway, knowing that something was wrong? Why, when her madness was obvious?

Everything is obvious, in hindsight. Cullen holds the girl down.

“Beg the Maker for mercy on your soul,” Meredith says. Cullen blinks, mouth dry. The Templar armor is heavy, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold and the dark. The lyrium brand sizzles, the girl keeps screaming, and Meredith is looking at him.

He blinks. His hands are braced on small shoulders, bearing down. Something shrieks in his ears, rattling his brain. There’s a glistening smear of blood down the front of his Templar armor. The Sword of Mercy shines a deep red, lyrium-glow. It paints the walls.

“Hold her down.”

“Yes,” Cullen replies mechanically, and he is at the head of the cot, staring down into Asha’s unfocused eyes. The shard of red lyrium juts from her chest, pulsing, his own heart throbbing in tandem with the beat, the screeching in his ears. He draws a deep breath through his nose and immediately regrets it, his stomach turning at the scent of so much blood.

Her head tips back, a low gurgle choked in her throat. Asha vomits red; it gushes from her mouth, spilling down her face. Her eyes are glassy, boring into his own. He shakes like a man possessed, his body not his own--this armor not his own, these thoughts, his _heart_ \--

But it’s always been his own. He knows this, thinks it when he screws his eyes shut and opens them only to find himself back in the cage, tears streaming down his face, magic humming in the air and demented howls resonating from the Harrowing chamber above.

Sometimes, Cullen thinks he might hate these dreams more than the terrors that involve the torture, the demon. At least those end the way that they always have--him, on bent knee, head bowed and hands fisted into his curls, tugging, trembling, banishing it all away if he says the right words loud enough, desperately enough. But these dreams--this terrible cycle--are always the same. He can’t banish these memories.

He can only watch them, again and again--mistakes. Failures. And he knows that his own self-loathing fuels the fire--he’s always wearing the Templar armor in these dreams. He’s always in those chains. It is always him, saying these things, doing these things.

And then the dream changes. Then it is Asha, every time and more. Standing in front of the cage, ornate staff in hand, staring down at him as if he is small and nothing and _disgusting_. On her knees, arms pinned behind her back, stiff-necked and silent as the lyrium brand hisses. On her back, arms and legs splayed where she’d collapsed--like every mage--on the floor of the Harrowing chamber, the tip of his blade poised above her beating heart. On the cot, blood staining her mouth and her eyes dark like bruised flesh, staring up at him.

“Why the once?” she asks. Cullen doesn’t understand at first. His mind, fragmented from dull pain and lack of sleep--but he is asleep--works to find the answer.

But then he knows. Remembers. “Because she knew,” he says, thickly. “That even though I’d taken her word over the mage’s, I didn’t think it was… I didn’t…”

“You were as much of a tool to her as anyone else was,” Asha murmurs, hips against his desk, her legs nearly touching the skirts of his armor. Cullen flinches, rises, rounds the desk and walks away because she should never touch something so foul as the proof of what he was.

Is. Is he? He’s in his office, in her fortress--would rather belong, if he would ever belong to anyone, to _her_ \--beautiful and bright and fierce and compassionate--

And yet he is still in the Templar armor. And he knows he is not worthy of her compassion--not when a decade ago, he would have hated her for it. He would have hated her.

_“Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me.”_

Is he still a Templar? In these dreams, he wonders.

“Are you leashed until the day you die?” he whispers, voice cracking. The early morning breeze blows through, cool and refreshing, but he can hardly feel it. The sun is bright, the pale stone of the battlements and snowcapped peaks of the Frostbacks beyond shining in the light. But he feels like he is still in a cage, the air humming. Blood and rot in his nose and mouth, sweat beading on his forehead. His hands shake, his throat burns.

Asha is in front of him, and he wonders if she is real. She reaches up to cup his face, gaze fierce. Her hands are nothing but gentle. Warm. The Anchor hums against his skin, and he doesn’t withdraw from it. She trails that hand gently down the curve of his jaw, stubble rasping against her palm, his breath pulled ragged from him.

Her eyes remain fixed on his face, watching him in that way that she does--like she can see everything about him, somehow. His jaw shudders, clenched tight--he wants to beg, drop to his knees and plead for her to flay him, render judgment, to reach her gentle hands in and tear every vile, poisonous bit of his past out from his soul in ugly ribbons. To throw them away like she’d thrown the lyrium. To make him a better man--a  _good_ man, reborn from the ashes of the holy fire he'd walked with for so long.

“This is your choice to make, and yours alone,” Asha says; Cullen blinks, because he knows the words. All of these words--a memory, bleeding into his dream.

It is his chain to break.

Slowly, she presses the palm of her left hand to the center of his breastplate, right on the Sword of Mercy. “Is this what you want?” she asks.

“No,” he breathes, raggedly, fixated on her. He gasps, chokes, lungs filling like he’s half-drowned and coming up for air. The Templar armor is so heavy, plate upon leather upon cloth upon chains; he doesn’t want it. “No.”

The Anchor flares to life, sparking, glowing, spitting green flames that begin to eat away at the metal. Cullen’s breath sticks in his throat, shaky-- _shaken_ \--as he grows warmer. He sucks in a deep breath, the taste of heat and honeyed tea blooming on his tongue. His lips tingle with a phantom warmth. The air is clear, and then scented--woodsy oakmoss, sweet elderflower, and the cool sharpness of elfroot.

Asha pulls back, and he finds himself in his own armor. The fur of his mantle rustles in the breeze, tickling his jaw; Cullen shivers, flexes his fingers in thick leather gauntlets and looks down.

This is his armor. He is not a Templar. He is a commander. Her commander. Hers.

The Inquisition’s heraldry is emblazoned in the center of his breastplate, radiant in the light. His vision blurs with wet heat, and Asha’s gentle laugh fills his ears, rich and lovely.

 

XXX

 

Cullen wakes up, dried tear tracks trailing down his temples, into his sweat-damp hair. He blinks, catches the stars and deep blue of the sky before dawn through the hole in the ceiling that he doesn’t ever want repaired. The leaves of a low-hanging branch peeking through rustle softly in the wind. A shuddering breath fills his lungs, and he tugs the thin blanket from his clammy skin, grimacing at how soaked with perspiration it is.

He sits up slowly, limbs aching, and scrubs a hand down his face to wipe away the bleariness and evidence of his nightmare. Although at the end, he supposes that it hadn’t really been a nightmare anymore. His chest tightens, breath hitching as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and catches sight of the little figurine on the nightstand.

Perhaps it’s silly, that Cullen has gotten into the habit of taking the glass halla from his desk drawer and placing it beside him when he sleeps. He’d had a bad day, a little over a week into Asha’s absence. His mind had been scattered at night, anger simmering, hands moving instinctively to the drawer, throwing it open and ready to pull out the lyrium kit and stare at it, to remind himself of why he needed to endure--

But he’d smashed the kit to pieces. That had been a while ago, he remembered. All that was in its place was the sparkling little halla. His temper had gone out like candlelight against a sharp gust of wind--and suddenly, he’d felt so very tired, weary right down to his bones. So he’d taken the halla up to his loft, set it on the nightstand, and stripped down to his smallclothes before he’d curled up in bed for the night, waiting for the terrors to take him.

And they hadn’t. He’d fallen asleep and woken up staring at that little halla. Dry-mouthed, head pounding, and shaking--but he hadn’t dreamed.

Cullen isn’t a child. He knows that the figurine won’t keep nightmares away, the same way he knows that the lucky silver coin his brother had given to him before he’d left to join the Templars isn’t really full of luck.

But it is nice to imagine. It reminds him of happier times, flashes of memory when the world seemed much simpler than it does now. And it reminds him of Asha.

Unlike other early mornings when Cullen prefers not to linger on what had passed through his mind the night before, he finds that he cannot keep from thinking about the dream. Not as he washes and slicks back his hair, not as he dresses and armors himself, not as he slips the glass halla into his pocket and works at his desk until the sun rises--and Skyhold begins to come to life.

He carefully tucks away the halla in its proper place, fingers tracing its delicate form as he thinks of Asha. It won’t be too long before she finally returns. The thought makes him feel impossibly light, tugs at the corners of his lips and urges him to smile.

Cullen glances down at himself for a moment, considering. And then he shuts the drawer with a decisive thump, rises, and makes his way to the undercroft. He needs to speak to Harritt.

 

XXX

 

By the time that they return to Skyhold, the only sounds in the fortress come from late-night revelers in the Herald’s Rest; the twin moons hang high above, bathing the courtyard in a pale glow. Asha breathes deeply of the crisp mountain air, relishing the feel of the grass beneath her feet. It’s not the soft, fragrant earth of the Emerald Graves--but her heart still trembles in her chest with the wave of peace that washes over her as she makes her way into the main hall.

It is good to be back, even if it is so late that any official business will need to wait until tomorrow morning. She sends runners to deliver missives to each advisor, letting them know that they should meet in the war room at first light. And then, she makes her way to her quarters.

Though she’d been happy to work with Josephine and Vivienne in selecting the decor of Skyhold’s public areas--appearances are everything, they both loved to remind her--they’d left her quarters entirely in her own hands save for two pieces of furniture. The polished teak desk had been from Josephine, and the cream-colored chaise had been from Vivienne. Both were every bit as useful as they were lovely, so she hadn’t minded.

But everything else is, technically, hers. It isn’t at all close to what her cozy aravel had looked like, being that there’s too much space and stone and shining stained glass here--but it is just as comfortable. Tension eases from her limbs when she steps inside her space, her sanctuary. The hearth crackles merrily, a cast iron pot and extra firewood to one side, and a round copper tub that is entirely too large for her with clean linens draped over it on the other.

Asha stares at it for a moment, considering. But despite her aching muscles, the comfort of sleep wins out over the comfort of a bath. She is half-under the sheets, the soft wool against her skin and the smell of woodsmoke already lulling her into the Fade, when she catches the faint sound of the door to her private landing creaking open. She freezes, frowning, and then swears softly when the rap of knuckles against the door to her quarters rings out.

“One moment,” she calls, fumbling for a chemise, her voice a bit sharper than it needs to be. She rolls her eyes at herself, remembering that a leader shouldn’t complain about interrupted rest; she is the Inquisitor, and the Inquisition needs her at her best, regardless of the hour. Her pinched brow, however, gives away her irritation.

But that vanishes entirely when Asha opens the door and is greeted by the sight of her commander, still in full armor and with his hands folded behind his back. His gaze goes tender when he sees her.

“Cullen,” Asha whispers--and the surge of affection she feels is overwhelming, overflowing within her, stealing her breath away. A dazzling grin splits her face, and she throws her arms around him without a second thought, not at all minding the hard plate between them. The rumble of his low laughter is music in her ears, and he is delicate when he wraps his arms around her.

“When the runner came by,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. “I decided I might bother you for a moment.”

“You are never a bother,” she breathes, smiling wider when she pulls back just enough to study his face. It’s dark in the stairwell, but she can see well enough to know that his color is healthy, though the tired shadows remain under his eyes. Asha sinks her teeth into her lower lip, biting back a remark about his sleeping habits.

He is, after all, forgoing sleep to visit her this late. And she is all too happy to let him, turning and tugging him up the stairs by his wrist. It is only when they are before the fire and her fingers slide from Cullen’s vambraces that she realizes they are unusually smooth. She blinks, looks down--and then she snatches his hand and pulls it towards her, splaying her fingers over the space where the Sword of Mercy should be.

Where it isn’t any longer. There’s a telltale stillness to Cullen’s body, his arm limp in her grasp like a kitten that’s been grabbed by the scruff. Pliable to her whims as she turns it this way and that, searching, eyes wide.

Asha glances up--and her heart stills in her chest. She’s eye-level with his breastplate, seeing it clearly for the first time. Slowly, half-convinced that she’d actually fallen asleep already, and that this is a dream, she reaches up and parts the burgundy cloth draped over him. Just enough to get a better look, though the fire illuminates him well enough.

The Inquisition’s sigil--the all-seeing eye and the blade--is blazoned on Cullen’s breastplate. Asha releases a shaky breath, carefully tracing the symbol with the tips of her fingers as though it might vanish under her touch. But it remains.

There’s a touch of apprehension in his eyes when she looks up at him. She presses her palm to his chest, over the crest, and something else flashes in his gaze before he looks away. “Why?” she whispers, gentle.

Cullen’s throat bobs in a hard swallow. “A few reasons,” he says, trying for nonchalance. He manages to meet her gaze once more. “I meant it, when I said that I would keep trying to put distance between myself and what happened. This is... part of that.” He clears his throat and adds, as lightly as he can, “Perhaps if I’d looked more like the commander of the Inquisition’s forces and not a Templar, you might not have disliked me so much, in the beginning.”

“Oh, no,” Asha croons, smiling sweetly. Her eyes twinkle in the firelight. “By the time I noticed your armor, I had already disliked you for several days.”

Cullen snorts, gathering her in his arms once again. He bends his head and presses another kiss to hers, smiling into her hair. “Well then,” he murmurs with an amused finality, his fingers curled ‘round the small of her waist. He tamps down a shiver of want--there’s nothing on her but the light of the fire and a short, thin chemise, and it makes him ache. The shocking force of how much he’d missed her still lingers.

“Was that all?” Asha murmurs after a long while, her voice heavy with sleep. She’s laid her head against his chest, nearly swaying in his arms. He is a solid wall of warmth, his strong arms around her and his cheek pressed to the top of her head. She quite likes being surrounded by him, doesn’t want it to end despite the late hour and the fact that the guards posted outside of her quarters will certainly talk.

The heady fog of affection--of being touched and held--fades some when Cullen quietly admits, “I have… frequent dreams.” He can’t manage the real words--night terrors--but Asha understands his meaning. His gaze is pained when she pulls back and looks at him, brow furrowed. “I would rather not… describe--”

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, bringing her free hand up to cup his face. The pad of her thumb brushes across the curve of his cheek, and he leans into her touch, greedy. Starved for it. “I would never ask you to.”

“I know,” Cullen says, voice raw. He falters only for a moment before continuing, “You were there.” He winces; from a normal man, the confession would be romantic--that he’d dreamt of her. But he isn’t that. Normal. He tamps down the brief flare of shame in his gut and says, “You--It… reminded me. That I have to let go of many things.” He glances down to the hand that she still has splayed over his chest. “That I finally _can_ let go. Of some things.”

“Change doesn’t always happen overnight,” Asha quips, tugging a breath of laughter from him. He shakes his head, lips quirked into the faintest semblance of a smile.

“True enough,” he says, watching her finally part from him, slipping from his grasp to take a seat on the edge of her bed. She looks almost comically small, at the end of the massive, clearly Orlesian monstrosity with its thick blankets and practically a dozen jewel-toned pillows. He smiles, steps towards her as he gestures to himself. “This didn’t, but you did knock some sense into me, I suppose. Er--” He blushes then, fiercely. “The--the dream… of you.”

Asha’s smile is dazzling, her eyes glinting like a cat’s. “Oh, ma’halla,” she purrs, her tone putting fire and sweetness in his blood, a rapid flutter in his heart. “You must have missed me terribly, to be dreaming of me nagging you.”

Cullen snorts, shoulders shaking with the effort of trying not to laugh. “A nag is the last thing I would call you,” he says, smiling. His voice goes soft when he confesses, “And I did. Miss you.” His breath hitches in his throat. “Very much so.”

He surprises them both when he slowly drops to one knee before her, a heavy hand coming to rest gently on her own. Asha swallows hard, eyes wide as she watches him, his head bowed, his posture startlingly like that of a knight swearing fealty.

“Cullen,” she manages, weakly, unsure of exactly what she is trying to get his attention for. He hears her, but his only motion is to slide his hand around to the hollow at the back of her knee, his fingers pressing into the soft skin in a way that makes her shiver. Her hands ball into tight fists in the soft sheets.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” he murmurs--and his eyes flash up at her, golden and heated, as he bends to press a reverent kiss to the joint. His mouth is warm, soft, makes her twitch as she realizes two things with a start.

The first is that he _is_ swearing to her--not fealty, but devotion. She can see it in his eyes, practically burning into her own; he looks at her now the way he’d looked at her on the battlements weeks ago, a hunger in his gaze right before he’d pressed her against the stone and kissed her breathless. Perhaps he’d used her title in a thinly veiled attempt to hold that hunger back--but all he’d managed was making it sound almost filthy, like a lover’s endearment.

The second is that he might still be reeling from the effect his dream had on him--he's placed himself at her feet, unequal--and she won’t let that impact this. Asha presses shaky hands to the top of his own, a gentle warning. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says unevenly.

Cullen blinks once, and then again as though he is coming out of a fog. The heated look fades, as does the wicked curve of his smile. “Asha?” he murmurs--and the sound of her name from his lips loosens the band of anxiety wrapped around her lungs.

She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring look, but her hands don’t ease their press against his. “I enjoy your attention,” she says lamely, releasing a sharp breath. “Very much. I… I want you, Cullen.” She watches color blaze high on his cheeks, feels the same blooming, burning on hers.

Perhaps she is being selfish. But Asha has borne every expectation placed upon her shoulders from childhood until now with as much acceptance and wisdom as she could muster. She is proud of that--proud that she is someone people look to. She is proud that she is a person like that for him.

But she wants more than that, now. From this. More than she has a right to claim, perhaps--but she wants something that is hers and hers alone. Untouched by the burdens of responsibility, if that is even possible.

“I want you to want me as a woman,” Asha says bluntly. Cullen’s mouth drops open a bit, but whether it’s from surprise or because he means to speak, she barrels on without intending to know. “I know that I am the Inquisitor. And to many, the Herald of Andraste. And that won’t change, but--” She looks away then, expression pinched. “I am not a savior, Cullen. Not anyone you should be on your knees for. I am only a woman--a woman with a twisted amount of luck, I think. I want you to see me that way.”

The silence stretches heavily between them, and for an awful moment, Asha wonders if she’s ruined one of the best things in her life.

But then he is rising, hands out from under hers and settling on the bed beside her, watching her with guilty eyes. “Forgive me,” he murmurs almost desperately, and Asha is stunned by the pain that lances through her, wet heat welling in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. She can’t think of anything else to say--not when she doesn’t know how she so swiftly managed to dampen what had been a wonderful mood.

But Cullen doesn’t look at all bothered by it, taking her hands in his and brushing his thumbs over the tops of her knuckles. She stares at him, watches the way his throat works before he manages, “Don’t apologize. You--” He falters, just for a moment, closing his eyes in what looks like shame. Asha wants to wipe the look from his face, but it is gone when he meets her gaze again. “I forget, sometimes. That you are here by the most unlikely of circumstances. Whether that was the Maker’s design or something else, I--you are right, Asha.

“The Chantry… taught me to never want anything,” he continues, softly. “It was wrong to desire things that would never be mine to keep. It was wrong to desire anything but to serve. Shameful. But my faith--that was mine. That, they encouraged.” Pain flashes again in his eyes. “It is difficult to separate you from that. Because I don’t want... to lose you.”

Asha’s heart squeezes too-tight in her chest, throbbing. “Cullen,” she breathes, bringing a hand up to brush through his hair. She hadn’t thought of it like that--she could never imagine it, with the freedom that she’d clung tightly to and would have killed for all her life. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to live locked away in a tower after years of being indoctrinated to do nothing but exert the will of the Chantry--the Chantry that wants leashed little soldiers and complacent little mages--and then to have freedom and not know what to do with it. To feel  _wrong_ for it.

Her Keeper had never forced any responsibility on her that she hadn’t been ready for--hadn’t wanted. The Inquisition had left her with no choice in the beginning--but they’d needed her alive and well, and then they’d cared for her, and then they’d looked to her. Depended on her, moved according to her decisions. She took control. And she’d welcomed that. She is still Asha’revas--still a free woman.

But Cullen is a man who doesn’t know how to be free, she realizes. His mind is still tangled in the knots that the Chantry had tied, forming connections that probably shouldn’t be there because it’s all he has ever known. His faith and his desire for her, meshed in an unlikely combination.

Much like them, almost. “We are certainly a pair,” Asha says, before she can stop herself.

But there’s a glimmer of amusement in Cullen’s eyes at that. The corners of his lips twitch. “Indeed,” he says wryly, and Asha swallows a laugh. 

“Thank you for understanding,” Asha whispers, shifting closer. She gives his hands a gentle squeeze and says, “I have never had any interest in being placed on a pedestal, ma’halla.” She cuts her eyes at him and adds, “But I understand, now, why that might be your first instinct when it comes to this. I don’t fault you for it. I only ask that you remember, when we are alone, that I am… already yours. I have been, for a long time. Just me.”

“Just a woman,” he says carefully, the words stilted on his tongue as he tests them. But they don’t sound wrong--not one bit. He smiles softly, saying, “A woman with a great deal of patience, thankfully.”

“Only for you,” she replies, half a laugh escaping her. “Perhaps you should think of my flaws, though, to remind you of how terribly undivine I am. I’ve got quite a temper, I don’t always act based on reason, I--”

“Regularly tempt fate,” Cullen interrupts flatly, eyes glinting as he watches her. “A dragon.”

Asha huffs and scoots away, biting back a grin--and nearly yelping in surprise when Cullen catches her by the wrists and jerks her back. A thrill rushes through her, under her skin, electric; _this_ is how she wants him. Just a man, with just a woman. “I was hoping you’d forgotten.”

Cullen doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the horror that had punched through him when he’d read Cassandra’s last letter from the Emerald Graves, just barely beaten into submission by the relief that they were all well. Now, though, he thinks of it with rueful amusement--has to, because he knows he cannot be afraid. “I hope the helmet was worth it,” he grumbles.

Asha beams proudly, glancing in the direction of her desk; Cullen follows her gaze and sees the item in question sitting in the center, gleaming in the firelight. He frowns; it really is magnificent in person, and he is certainly not going to tell her that--otherwise, she might make a habit of going toe-to-toe with high dragons.

Asha lets out a huff of laughter at his expression, shaking her head. “What’s done is done,” she says serenely. Cullen rolls his eyes, which only seems to amuse her more. “If it makes you feel better, it only got one good hit on me, and it hardly scarred,” she says, wriggling a hand free of his grasp to rest against her ribcage, just under her breasts; the wound hadn’t fazed her at the time, and it is certainly nothing now.

Her breath catches in her throat when Cullen’s eyes shoot to her hand, and then trail lower, slowly. She sees them darken, pupils growing fat, and her ears flutter when she hears his breathing change. His grip tightens ever so slightly on her other wrist.

She realizes, then, that she is wearing very little, and they are both suddenly very aware of it.

Heat crackles, curls low in her belly. Asha wets her lips and waits for him to do or say something, and his gaze remains, practically pinning her hand in place. She shifts, mildly cursing her traitorous body when gooseflesh rises on her naked skin. Swallowing hard, she almost brings her arm up to cover her breasts and the rather obvious reaction she’s having to him, visible through the thin cloth of her chemise, but--

She’d said she wanted him to want her as a woman. And looking at him now, she can tell that he most certainly _wants_ her.

Asha tugs her other hand from Cullen’s grasp--he lets her go, eyes wide and golden when they finally manage to snap back to her face--and rises up onto her knees, leaning towards him. His breath hitches, and she is so close that she can feel the heat and hunger radiating from him. Or perhaps it’s from her. Regardless, he doesn’t move; he sits very still, and Asha realizes that he’s the one who waits for her word, her move.

“It’s very late,” she says, testing, words quiet so that she doesn’t tear through the intimacy of the moment--her in front of him, on a bed, eyes locked.

“It is,” Cullen says hoarsely. He still doesn’t move.

Asha’s eyes darken, growing stormy as fire licks through her belly, needy. She pushes again--harder, this time. Bluntly. “The guards will talk if you stay the night.”

She watches the shiver roll through him, the leather of his gloves creaking as he balls his hands into fists, fighting for control. “They will,” he says. He sounds like he’s got embers in his mouth, burning. “I won’t stay. But…” His eyes flicker in the firelight, the word hanging heavy in the air between them.

He doesn’t want to leave just yet. And she--

“A little while longer, then?” she asks, not bothering to mask the tremulous hope in her voice.

Cullen lets out a sharp breath through his nose, catching her hand in his and guiding it to his shoulder the way that he guides her down from the dais after judgments. Gentle, as though she is precious. But when she fists a hand in the fur of his mantle, he doesn’t look at her as though she is untouchable.

The look in his eyes--all he wants to do is _touch_ her.

In one swift move, all grace and base instinct, Asha draws up and close, swinging a leg over his hips and settling herself onto his lap--pressed down onto muscled thighs and a thick hardness with a noise hitched in her throat. Cullen jolts under the touch, the weight of her, hands digging into the curve of her hips in the next moment.

“A little while,” he gasps, agreeing, mind half blank and the other half full of the feel of her in his arms, on him, face flushed and full lips parted, hands reaching and burying themselves into his hair. He realizes that the chemise is the only thing between him and her body, that his trousers are the only thing between him and _her body_ , legs open around him--

Maker, he’s never been this hard in his life. He huffs, dizzy with desire, burying his face into the crook of her neck and breathing in the scent of her. He hears her breath catch, feels her throat vibrate under his mouth when he presses a sucking kiss to the hollow and she moans. The delicious bite of pain on his skull when her fingers tighten and she involuntarily tugs makes him consider, for a delirious moment, opening his mouth wider and sinking his teeth into her skin.

Cullen shivers, breath shaky. He’s wanted women before--none of those infatuations having ever ended well, to say the least. And while he knows of the motions of intimacy, he doesn’t know what to do with the impossible magnitude of what he feels for Asha. He doesn’t know if she wants more or less. And his fear, nagging in the back of his mind, prompts him to whisper, almost desperately, “Tell me what to do.”

He nearly startles at the feel of her gentle fingers grasping his chin, tipping his head up to look at her.

Asha’s face is flushed, eyes half-wild, but there’s enough clarity for her to see that he is unsure. The wicked inferno in her cools some, melting warm and thick over her heart, in the spaces between her ribs. The ache between her legs makes her want to push him down and rock over him until she’s satisfied--but his comfort is of far greater concern to her, always.

“We don’t have to do a thing but stay like this, if you want,” she whispers, hands dropping to her side. Cullen searches for something in her voice--disappointment, irritation, anything wrong--and finds nothing but sweetness and sincerity. “Nothing will happen that you don’t want.”

A beat passes, and Cullen buries his face back in her neck, not because he means to tease her, but because he doesn’t think he can keep himself together if he looks at the unconditional affection in her gaze. Something cracks and falls away in his chest--fear, perhaps, of a time long ago, of a _thing_ with dusky eyes and hard claws that had dragged over his body, into his soul, and hadn’t cared about permission. Hadn’t cared about what he wanted, only how it could be turned against him--not in any way like Asha, who always cares about what he wants.

Asha feels him shudder, once--and then a droplet of warmth falls onto the hollow of her throat, sliding down. Something breaks in her, in the middle of all the heat, for him. It splits her open, a deep sorrow when she realizes that words that should be innocuous, _obvious_ \--nothing will happen that he doesn’t want--have spilled salt from him onto her skin. She murmurs his name, achingly gentle, and slowly wraps her arms around him, cheek pressed against the golden crown of his hair.

Cullen makes a low sound, half pain and half relief as his grip tightens around her. “Asha,” he says, voice close to a wreck. “I’m--”

“If you even _think_ an apology,” she starts, in between pressing kisses to the crown of his head, “I might literally have to knock some sense into you, ma vhenan.”

He vibrates in her arms, with laughter and something very fragile. He doesn’t ask the meaning of her words, and Asha doesn’t really think about the magnitude of calling him her home, her heart. Perhaps the moment should have been bigger, thunderous and earth-shattering--but it’s not. It’s simple and natural, like breathing. 

Asha wonders if this is what love feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hobbies include blue-balling my readers. Smut??? Before mentally exhausting but necessary talks through issues????? Not in my town, y'all.
> 
> Up next: Maybe Ferelden? Maybe Halamshiral prep?? Undetermined.


	22. Unity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is not an optimist entirely by nature. She is an optimist because it is her choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> u want sum fluff?
> 
> Well it's at the end of this mostly Asha-centric chapter. :>

_"My afternoon dream; when the world is speedin',_  
_I am still sleepin' in my blue dream._  
_And I know the meanin' for all the seasons--_  
_you are the reason, my love."_  
**\-- 'Blue Dream' by Jhene Aiko**

* * *

 

Dawn’s light only just begins to peek over the tips of the Frostbacks when Asha climbs the battlements to Skyhold’s newly completed mage tower. There’s a small woven basket in her hands piled with sticks of incense, a handful more peeking out of the nugskin pouch at her hip, and a flutter of apprehension in her gut. The guards posted at the tower’s entrance salute her when she approaches, and she gives them a smile tight with nerves as she slips inside.

Asha lets out a soft, pleased breath at the sight of the ground floor; the torches are still lit, casting a warm glow about the open space. Workbenches line the walls, parchment, ink pots, and candles scattered about their surfaces. There are a handful of mages awake at this hour, all of them turning to look at her with bleary eyes.

Except Fiona, who straightens from reading over the shoulder of one of her younger charges. “Inquisitor,” she says, striding to meet her.

“Good morning, Fiona,” Asha says, striving for lightness in her voice. She glances around the room and adds, “Everyone.” She can’t help but smile when she receives a few quiet, sleepy greetings in return.

“Have you come to inspect the finished product?” Fiona asks, gesturing to the space at large. She doesn’t sound bothered by Asha’s presence--which, admittedly, is a great relief.

“I have,” she says, holding out the basket. “And I have a gift for you all as well. Dawn lotus incense.” Fiona takes it from Asha, though her raised brows convey her surprise. Asha, however, feels pride swell in her chest when she explains, “Made with oils from the blooms in the garden. It’s good for focusing. Considering this is a place of learning and research…” She shrugs a shoulder. “I hoped it would help.”

“You are too kind,” Fiona says, a faintly pleased smile playing about the corners of her lips as she sets the basket down on a nearby table.

Asha ducks her head, silently accepting the praise. Her joy fades a bit, though, when she asks the question that’s had her stomach in knots since the tower’s completion. “How is it?”

Fiona understands that she isn’t talking about the incense. Her smile thins slightly, and she says lowly, “There are a few concerns that this will be a new Circle. I would be lying if I said that I did not share those myself at one point--but, no longer. You’ve kept your word--there are no Templars stationed here to watch us. This is no prison. I am sure that those who remain wary will come to see that.”

Asha swallows past the tightness in her throat; she understands their fear, and their desire for freedom. She would give it to them and keep them safe in the process. “I assure you, the last thing I want this place to feel like for you all is a prison,” she says. She hesitates for half a breath and then continues, “In fact… I have been thinking that I would like it if the Inquisition could find a new working model. For progress in the lives of mages. There’s--well. It… might be a bit of trial and error. But if change is to happen, new things need to be tried first.” Her mouth twists; Fiona’s gaze is piercing, but Asha will not look away. “It won’t be easy, but I’d like it to be worth it. I think we can build bridges, so to speak. From what’s already happened, to better things in the future.”

“A noble pursuit,” Fiona says, and nothing more. There’s a curious shine in her eyes, though, so Asha decides not to worry or pry for her thoughts. After all, she’d told Cullen just the other week that change didn’t always happen overnight. Small steps are better than none.

She settles for clapping her hands together, glancing around with a bright look. “Shall we?”

The sincerity returns to Fiona’s smile for a moment, and she nods and gestures for Asha to follow her. They climb the wide, spiraling staircase in the center of the tower, up and up through each floor. It’s not as grand a structure as the Circle towers were known for being--really, there is only just enough room for spaces dedicated to independent research in academic, alchemical, and battle magic subjects. There is no room in the tower for personal quarters--the mage wing is in the section below the tower, actually--nor a dedicated area for lessons. The children alternate between learning in the garden, on the days that the herbalists are not working, and learning in the library.

It is an excellent addition to Skyhold nonetheless. But Asha still wishes that it could be more--a perfect sanctuary, ideally, where they would feel secure and want for nothing. Especially considering the unfortunate existence of a small room at the very top floor, doorless and with the entryway guarded by the only Templar stationed in the tower. As Fiona had mentioned, Knight-Captain Briony’s presence isn’t meant to inspire fear or suspicion from the mages. She isn’t there to watch them.

She is only there for Alexius, who works quietly at an uncluttered table. The man is only permitted to research under guard as he was sentenced, and only in this one area of the tower. Though Asha hadn’t put any rules in place about him not interacting with the other mages, neither he nor her conscripts display any interest in sharing a space. For now, Asha believes it’s for the best.

And Knight-Captain Briony is a trustworthy woman; one of Cullen’s best Templars, likely second only to Captain Rylen who remains at his post in the Western Approach. She stands at attention in the entryway, saluting Asha and nodding respectfully to Fiona when they reach the landing. “Inquisitor. Grand Enchanter,” she greets them.

“Good morning, Knight-Captain,” Asha murmurs, glancing past her. She watches Alexius’ shoulders stiffen at the sound of her voice.

He turns, then, looking over and meeting her eyes for a moment. His skin is sallow and eyes dim--and Asha is surprised by the sense of wrongness that fills her at his dismal appearance. “Alexius,” she murmurs, ignoring the wary looks that Fiona and Briony give her.

Alexius’ expression does not change, remaining inscrutable. “Inquisitor,” he says. And that is the extent of their interaction; he returns quietly to his work.

Asha cuts her eyes at Fiona, lowering her voice to a near-whisper when she asks, “How is he? And this arrangement?”

Fiona clasps her hands together, not sparing Alexius a glance. “I do not see enough of the former magister to speak on his well-being,” she says disinterestedly. “But this arrangement suits us well enough.” A beat passes, and then she admits, “There was some apprehension, understandably. And some of the more… temperamental young mages are not pleased that there is a Templar in the tower at all.” At this, she gives Briony an almost apologetic look.

The Knight-Captain shrugs a shoulder, unsurprised and--blessedly--not appearing too bothered.

Even so, Fiona says, “The Senior Enchanters and I are doing our best to remind everyone that though we are conscripts, we are no longer prisoners.” A brief silence stretches between them, and she adds, a bit stiff but sincere, “I do appreciate the Knight-Captain’s presence, to ensure that we remain safe from Alexius.”

Asha nods, turning to look at Briony--craning her neck to do so considering the woman towers over her, height beaten only by Cullen and Iron Bull. “I’m glad,” she says. “Knight-Captain Briony was Cullen’s personal recommendation for the job.”

The way that Briony’s posture straightens, chest puffing slightly with pride, makes her smile.

“How are things, Knight-Captain?” Asha asks.

Briony spares a glance over her shoulder, through the entrance into Alexius’ workroom. The man appears to be ignoring their conversation. She turns back to Asha and says, “He’s yet to start any trouble, so I suppose that’s something.”

Asha cocks her head, ears twitching. “And how is he?” she asks again, hoping that the Knight-Captain might be able to give her an answer.

Briony blinks, a bit surprised that she is asking after Alexius’ health. “Quiet mostly,” she replies. “Especially since he got word that his son passed.”

Asha frowns; though she doesn’t believe she will ever forgive Alexius for his hand in nearly dooming the world, she understands all too well the grief of loss--and of feeling responsible for it. However, there is nothing she can think to say to Alexius, and he likely feels the same towards her. Even so, after a long moment, she says, “If Dorian Pavus comes to visit with him, let them be.”

Briony nods. “As you wish.”

“Thank you, Knight-Captain. As you were,” Asha says, turning to depart back down the stairs with Fiona. But she only gets a few steps down before she lets out a soft ‘ah’ of remembrance and darts back up to the landing. She fishes the few sticks of incense out of the pouch at her hip and presses them into Briony’s hands. “Cedarwood,” she explains at Briony’s bewildered expression. “Good for extra energy; burn it before you train.”

“Er,” Briony starts, eyes gone a bit wide; Asha realizes then that she is likely not used to such casual interactions from a superior. Her fingers close gingerly around the gift. “...Thank you, Your Worship.”

Asha leaves her with a genial smile and a wave before rejoining Fiona on the staircase. Only when they are far enough down that Briony is out of earshot does Fiona ask, “Building bridges?”

Her tone is more knowing than it is skeptical, and Asha decides to consider it a small victory. “Yes,” is her simple, sincere reply. She glances sidelong at Fiona; at the woman’s raised brows, she lets out a breath of laughter. “Surprised?”

“Curious,” she answers without missing a beat. Asha grins.

“I declared this Inquisition for the purpose of doing what’s right--so that we all stand together in defeating Corypheus,” she says nonchalantly, as though it is a goal that might be standard instead of extraordinary. “But for that to happen--well. First, we must be _brought_ together.” Her eyes are sharp, glimmering. “A bit of positivity, even trivial, helps that along. Don’t you think so?”

“I suppose we will see,” Fiona replies, bemused. “Trial and error.”

At that, true laughter bursts from Asha’s lips, rich and ringing. “Exactly,” she says. She sighs, softly, when they reach the ground floor once more. She trails her fingers idly over the cluttered surface of a nearby worktable, separate from everyone else, and continues, “I want everyone to do well here. To flourish.”

A beat of silence passes, flitting between them. “I appreciate that you are invested in our well-being,” Fiona says.

Asha blinks. “Of course I am,” she replies a bit incredulously. She turns, leaning a hip against the table and studying Fiona carefully. “I am responsible for you, after all. I am the one who brought you here; your well-being is one of my highest priorities.”

Fiona pauses, her thin brows climbing high once again. She has no words to respond to Asha’s earnest declaration; on the one hand, a realist would say that the Inquisitor surely has far higher priorities. But on the other hand, hearing such a thing come from Asha, who is already overburdened with greater responsibilities, is incredibly reassuring.

Asha isn’t concerned by the silence, however. In fact, she sees it as an opportunity. “If I may,” she begins, hesitant. At Fiona’s inquisitive look, she smiles. “I understand that I am, in many ways, lucky compared to you all. I was never kept confined; I had freedom. I was never watched constantly by Templars waiting for me to make a mistake. I don’t know that particular kind of fear.” Her mouth twists, voice wry when she says, “Vivienne once asked me if I expected the Dalish to take all mages under our wing and teach everyone what they needed to know.”

Fiona scoffs. “That does sound like her.”

Asha’s lips twitch as she stifles laughter. “Yes,” she murmurs, amused. “But I understood the point, regardless. We don’t need Templars because there are not enough of us for the Keepers to be spread thin in training their apprentices. And in your Circles, the problem multiplied. Too many mages kept close like chickens in a coop. Too few educators, too few Templars.”

“Too few?” Fiona asks, sharply.

Asha remains unfazed. “Compared to their charges, yes--you don’t think that their own mistrust of mages was encouraged by the Chantry when it insisted that every mage was a potential threat? When you find yourself outnumbered by people that you are trained to see as nothing more than a danger waiting to happen, you won’t be inclined to treat them kindly. I was the same with humans, once. But I had the chance to grow past that--I was _encouraged_ to grow past that.” Asha’s mouth twists, deep disapproval lined in her face as she observes, “But none of you were given either the chance or the encouragement.

“I think there must be a way, though,” she continues, softly. A way for mages to have everything that they need--knowledge, protection, and freedom.” She purses her lips, brow puckering in thought. “We just have to find it.”

After a long moment, Fiona asks, “Do you believe you are capable of enacting all this change, Inquisitor? The Circles are gone. The Templar Order has fallen apart.”

Asha smiles, unexpectedly, at the barbed questions. She would be concerned if Fiona hadn’t asked, honestly. “I don’t,” she says cheerfully. Fiona blinks hard. Asha shrugs a shoulder, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ears. Her eyes glimmer in the dim light, undaunted. “But I would be quite a fool if I didn’t try. A disgrace to my clan, to the Inquisition, and to all of you. I have already failed once by inaction; I left the Templars to their fate because I didn’t care enough about them to see if anything could be done. I didn’t care to put in the work, and I regret it. That was a mistake I won’t repeat, not with you or anyone.”

Fiona remains silent for a while after that, studying Asha with a shrewd gaze. The Inquisitor is an optimist, and she doesn’t balk under her intense stare. Fiona isn’t entirely sure if she approves; after all, she has never known the unrelenting weight of the Templars’ close scrutiny--the yoke over every Circle mage. She readily admits that.

But then, she has been an apostate all her life. And she lives an impossible situation, navigating her way through an unkind world with as much grace as she can. And sometimes, the grace fails her--Fiona recalls watching Asha sit in judgment, the way that she goes rigid and unforgiving at the worst of the crimes. The way she sometimes welcomes her own anger. She is not always benevolent. But the moments where it is clear how much of a danger she can be, somehow, manage to make her ideals all the more reassuring.

She is not an optimist entirely by nature. She is an optimist because it is her choice.

“I cannot fault you for it,” Fiona says at last. “For your honesty, and that you wish to try. It is more than most are willing to do.”

“Is it?” Asha murmurs, her tone just a shade shy of teasing. Before Fiona can say anything in response, she folds her arms and says, “There is plenty to do. Plenty for everyone to do… if you are open to it.”

Fiona arches a thin brow, waiting. Asha cocks her head, ears twitching; there are two ways that this can go, she knows. And she’s not _so_ much of an optimist that she’s confident in receiving the positive reaction she hopes for.

“Commander Cullen had some suggestions that I found interesting,” she says.

Fiona’s expression quickly shutters, inscrutable. “Oh?”

Asha manages not to wince. There’s a severity to the single word that can be rivaled only by Cassandra. So she does what has become her most effective habit in disarming the Seeker and turns a charming smile on Fiona. “Yes; I thought I might see what you thought of them. He agrees that mages should have more opportunities--and that unity should be encouraged.”

“He said that?”

Asha’s response is a sharp laugh, and it takes Fiona by surprise enough that she continues, “Diplomacy might not be his strongest skill, but he is not without it entirely.” She pushes herself up onto the worktable, scooting back and crossing her legs. More than a few heads turn, gaping at the Inquisitor shrugging off the mantle of decorum. It is a calculated move, meant to lower their guard enough that when she explains Cullen’s suggestions--the mixed military service that, for now, can simply be integrated training sessions between the mages and Templars, and the healer’s clinic that, for now, can be a handful of healers who might be interested in researching effective methods for treating lyrium addiction--Fiona might receive them well.

Fiona’s gaze is more than a little incredulous, as is her voice when she repeats, “He said that?”

Asha presses her fingers to her lips, hiding the pleased smile. “The mixed military service and healers clinic is what he suggested,” she says. “He doesn’t know I’ve amended those to suit what we have to work with here. But I think it could work--the Red Templars are our largest threat, now that the Wardens are gone. You have mages who can fight in the field--but they can’t all manage a blade or a staff in melee as I can. Cullen’s Templars can teach them how to survive against Samson’s. If not long enough to defeat them, then at least long enough to fall back to safety. And if enough are willing, we might be able to have those integrated units at some point. They could bolster each other’s effectiveness like never before.”

Fiona’s eyes narrow thoughtfully, but she doesn’t attempt to pick that apart just yet. “And the healers?” she prompts.

“It’s something we should be looking into,” Asha says. The smile is gone; she is solemn now, though her appeal is earnest when she adds, “The Chantry makes addicts of its Templars. I know it’s not easy to consider what they go through, considering all that they’ve done to mages.” Her eyes flash sharply. “But a prisoner is a prisoner regardless of what the shackles are made of. It’s all wrong, either way. And we must rebuild--but the old institution is only half torn down, Fiona. The Circles are gone, but there is still no way for Templars to break their chains when they are done with them.”

“Would you have all Templars quit lyrium?” Fiona asks, softly.

Asha’s mouth twists, a deep frown marring her features. “No, I wouldn’t,” Asha says. She thinks for a moment, gathering the right words around her. “Templars are necessary, and their abilities require lyrium. Magic _can_ be dangerous, and demons threatening--but instead of waiting around for danger to happen, or provoking it with those… Those awful Harrowings…” Asha shakes her head, a sigh of disgust escaping her in a short burst. “Unwavering obedience to the Chantry or to lyrium cannot be what guides them.”

“And what purpose, pray tell, would you give them?”

Asha doesn’t flinch at the harsh note in Fiona’s voice. “The one that they used to have. Protecting their charges. Keeping everyone, those with magical talent and those without, safe.” She shrugs, leaning back on her hands. “That’s the purpose those in the Inquisition have now, in any case. But if some want to--” Her voice hitches here as she catches herself. “--want to quit the lyrium, then they should be able to do so without fear. And they shouldn't have the truth of its effects hidden from them until it's too late for them to escape.”

Fiona purses her lips thoughtfully, considering. She isn’t ignorant of the lyrium addiction and its effects--she’s seen addled Templars before, their minds slowly going to pieces. But she’d had far greater concerns before. Now, though, the Inquisition protects them. All of them.

She isn’t certain what to make of Asha and her ideas. A small part of her isn’t even certain how a person like Asha, who’d grown up so far removed from any of their problems, can even _have_ these ideas, extending her compassion to all. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t baffle her, somewhat. In her opinion, it shouldn't even be possible.

But Fiona recognizes why she had been named Inquisitor. Asha has been capable of accomplishing the impossible right from the start--that much _is_ certain.

“If I could have some time to consider these suggestions, Inquisitor,” Fiona murmurs, inclining her head respectfully.

The tight, guarded shine of her eyes dims a great deal, her shoulders losing their rigidity. Asha slowly slides off of the worktable, nodding. “Of course, Fiona,” she says amiably. “Take all the time you need.” She gestures to the space at large and adds, “And thank you for showing me around. If there is anything you need, you only have to ask.”

“I appreciate that, Inquisitor,” Fiona says. She watches intently as Asha turns to go, making her way to the door with light, surefooted steps and a kind smile for the mages who glance up and wave to her as she passes by. Fiona remains on the ground floor, then, quietly observing her studying charges.

Not long after she goes, one of them plucks a stick of incense from the basket Asha had left for them, lighting it and filling the tower with a lush fragrance.

“D’you think she’d show me how to grow dawn lotus if I asked?” wonders a younger mage, an herbalist only recently of age. She tugs idly on a bright red braid, eyes closed and breathing deeply.

Seated beside her, another girl frowns. “I think the Inquisitor’s a bit busy, Ella. Saving the _world_ an’ all of that.”

Ella scoffs, folding her arms and turning back to her reading with a slight pout. “She’s in the garden a lot, though. And she’s nice… Can’t hurt to ask. Besides! If I knew how to grow them myself, I could finally figure out how to increase the potency of healing potions.”

The other girl glances up, brows furrowed. “You don’t even know if it’ll work.”

Ella shrugs, a faintly excited smile playing about the corners of her lips. “That's true, but… Well, I think I’m onto something! And I could figure it out if I just had free access to the supplies.” She grins.

The other girl gives her a flat look. “Or you might accidentally poison yourself, like William.”

Ella muffles a laugh behind her hand, shaking her head. “Maybe. But even odds aren’t _so_ bad. And I won’t know how it turns out unless I try.”

 

XXX

 

_Commander Cullen,_

_I assume the Inquisitor has already spoken with you about our discussion the previous day regarding her ideas for further integrating our forces. I will not lie; I am apprehensive. But tradition--and every other option, I suppose--has failed us thus far. If she believes that there is little harm in exploring new opportunities--building bridges, as she calls it--then I find I cannot argue._

_It is worth trying._

_Enclosed are two lists; the first contains the names of seventeen mages who have expressed interest in integrated training sessions with the Templars for the sake of learning how to fight Samson’s forces more effectively in the field. It is my hope that both you and the Inquisitor will be present for these._

_The second contains the names of four healers who have expressed interest in researching effective methods to safely combat lyrium addiction. Academic research is well and good--but they will require willing participants in trials, if they are to find a proper solution. Perhaps you might know of some._

_I would like to meet with you to discuss these matters further, when you have the time._

_\-- Fiona_

 

XXX

 

_Asha,_

(With the letter from Fiona folded and attached.) _When you asked me why we weren’t doing more with these ideas, I had no idea that you intended to pursue them so soon. In hindsight, I should have expected that._

 _You are--_ (Here, a rapidly scratched out string of possible compliments, none of which had seemed adequate enough to describe her.) _\--dedicated to this, and for that, I am most grateful. The Grand Enchanter and I will be meeting in the evening to discuss things. I would like it if you were there; the conversation would not be happening were it not for you, after all._

_\-- Cullen_

 

_Cullen,_

_I would love to be there, ma vhenan. I’m afraid Josephine will be stuffing me into a dress that hardly suits me and_ ~~_forcing_ ~~ _encouraging me to meet with Lord Darío Flores of Antiva for most of the afternoon--the one who sent us a thirty-page trade proposal, if you recall. I imagine I’ll be a bit talked out by the time I join you; hopefully, you will not mind my mostly silent observation._

_\-- Asha_

 

_Asha,_

_It is more than enough to simply have you beside me. As for your dismal afternoon, you have my sympathies._

_And I’m sure you will look lovely in the dress._

_\-- Cullen_

 

XXX

 

“Come to the garden with me,” Asha had insisted days later in the middle of the afternoon, leaning over Cullen’s desk in such a deliberately enticing manner that he’d known he wouldn’t dream of denying her. She knew it as well. Even so, she’d grinned at him and teased, “Enjoy the fresh air for once in your life.”

“I am frequently outside,” he’d pointed out matter-of-factly, though half a smile had tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Working,” Asha had fired back, striding happily out of his office with him at her heels.

He’d snorted, shaking his head; the stack of papers he held rustled in his grasp. “And I suppose I’m bringing these to the garden for fun.”

“Perhaps I’m trying to trick you into not suspecting anything,” she’d teased, grabbing his free hand and squeezing for the briefest moment before they’d found themselves in the courtyard, surrounded by others. “After all, isn’t the best part of your work when I manage to tempt you away from it?”

If people had noticed the distance between them while they’d walked--hardly any--or the gentle smile he wore when he leaned low to speak or listen to her, they only stared and didn’t say a word.

And that is how Cullen found himself seated at a little table in the shade of the pavilion, a half-read missive from Ser Belinda Darrow in his hands which can’t seem to keep his focus--likely because his attention is entirely fixed on Asha, who has fallen asleep against one of the pillars. Her head lolls back against the stone, braids and unbound strands fluttering in the breeze.

He envies how utterly untroubled she looks in sleep only half as much as he finds himself amused by it. After all, she teases him mercilessly about falling asleep at his desk sometimes--damn Cassandra for telling her about that--and yet here she is, napping. He’s seen her asleep before, but this is different. It makes him smile.

But the more minutes tick by, the more Cullen finds that the humor melts away, replaced by a fierce knot of protectiveness coiling in his chest. He sees her less and less as the days fly by since her return from the Emerald Graves, drawing them all ever closer to the ball at Halamshiral. It may yet be weeks away, but there is no shortage of responsibilities that require her attention at nearly every waking hour before then.

So when he catches sight of Leliana approaching the pavilion, a searching look on her face, he can’t quite keep the displeased expression off of his. But Leliana merely smiles enigmatically and pauses with her foot on the bottom step. “Ah,” she says softly, finding Asha curled against a pillar with her legs tucked beneath her. Her amusement is almost palpable. “Josephine has been searching for her.” Leliana glances sidelong at him. “Yet another tailoring session.”

Cullen gives her a look that could curdle milk. “Do not wake her for that,” he can’t stop himself from saying, keeping his voice low. He rolls his eyes when Leliana’s brows climb high. “At least leave her be for as long as it takes her to wake.”

Leliana’s eyes twinkle like pale jewels; Cullen looks away from her, finding that the expression she wears is eerily similar to the one that Mia would get when they were young and she was ready to gloat over another victory in chess. “Commander,” Leliana starts, and Cullen feels heat rise high upon his cheeks; even the tone of voice is the same. “Keeping the Inquisitor from her duties? You _have_ gone soft.”

Cullen lets out a faintly exasperated breath, finding that he can, in fact, focus on his work if the only other option is meeting Leliana’s sharp gaze. He briefly recalls the fitting that he himself had been subjected to--pins and swathes of bright fabric everywhere, measurements and prodding, _wholly_ unpleasant. And certainly not the sort of thing he’d rank as an important duty. “Try not to faint from shock, then,” he begins dryly, “but I’ve been considering asking Asha to accompany me on a brief trip from Skyhold.”

He blinks for a moment, half-startled. It is the truth; he has been considering it ever since the day she’d returned from the Graves. In fact, he’d intended to ask her that night, but she had been… They had been…

He ducks his head, hoping against all odds that Leliana doesn’t see the flush of his face. He hadn’t managed to ask that night, and there had always been something more drawing their attention from each other at every opportunity he might’ve had since. He’d already resigned himself to not being able to bring it up for quite a while yet, but now--well.

Cullen can’t very well take the words back once they’ve been spoken. But the silence stretches, then, making him shift awkwardly in his seat--until he can’t bear it any longer and looks to Leliana, finding nothing but a questioning gaze reflected back at him.

He bites back a sigh. “There’s… I thought I might take an opportunity, before Halamshiral takes all of our attention, to visit Rainesfere and inspect the ongoing construction for Bann Teagan.” He brings a hand to the back of his neck, the leather of his gloves cooling the burning embarrassment, somewhat. “Honnleath is… not more than a few days’ ride south.”

He says nothing more, mouth snapping shut as he firmly ignores the _flame_ in his face and the slightly surprised look on Leliana’s. He might’ve used the opportunity to be smug--nobody catches the spymaster off guard, and yet…

Well. And yet, Cullen had caught himself off guard with the very thought the moment it had entered his head, and the way that it had grown stronger every day since until he’d had no option but to decide that yes, he wanted to ask Asha to accompany him to visit his hometown.

His family isn’t an option; not now, not yet. South Reach is too far, and besides that, Cullen isn’t certain that he can face them. He’s only just managed being able to write back in a somewhat timely manner. The thought of seeing them again--and of bringing Asha with--makes his heart knock uncomfortably against his ribs.

But Honnleath. He hadn’t gone back after the Blight. And then there had been Kirkwall, and everything after. A part of him wonders if he’s even ready for this much--but he finds himself reassured both by the fact that he knows it will be very different, and that is a comfort, and he wants to do something… _nice_ for Asha.

She flits from task to task, no end of responsibilities in sight. She teases him about overworking himself, forgetting to eat, and falling asleep at his desk in the wee hours--and then she goes and falls asleep in the shade of the crowded garden while the sun still hangs in the sky.

Honnleath is the proof that he’d had happier times, once. And peace. And Cullen realizes that he now understands why Asha likes to fuss over him so much. Why she brings him tea and infusions and sits on the edge of his desk, putting her hands on him and convincing him to sneak away for a moment or two. It isn’t simply because she is a good leader who cares for the well-being of her commander, though that is certainly true. It’s because she wants, as he does with her, to take him away from his burdens. Even if only briefly.

But Cullen, selfish in a way that he can’t bring himself to be bothered by, wants more than brief moments for her.

He realizes belatedly that Leliana has been staring at him all the while, silent. He’d expected more teasing--it hadn’t come. Instead, she says, “I assume there is a reason you’re telling me this.”

Cullen glances down to Asha, and then back up to her. “Yes,” he admits, all caution thrown to the wind. “If Asha agrees to come with me, I’ll have to rely on you to inform me if anything urgent requires us to return.”

A long pause stretches between them before Leliana smiles faintly, hands folded behind her back. “Of course,” she murmurs, as though she should’ve expected that--but she finds herself pleased by the trust nonetheless. She glances down to Asha still resting, blissfully unaware of anything, against the stone. Her lips twitch briefly at the corners, gaze softening. “I will be with Josephine; do send the Inquisitor our way when she wakes,” she says, turning and leaving Cullen to his work.

As Leliana retreats back across the garden, nodding politely to the Chantry sisters who greet her as she passes, she can’t help but recall a faint memory. A memory of a terrified, tortured, angry young man in bloodied Templar armor, wild curls and wild eyes and hatred in his mouth. Very different from the commander that he’d become.

Not the best first impression, to say the very least. But he’s a grown man, now--grown in many ways. Still infuriating, often. Stubborn. Shadows lingering, every now and again, in his gaze. But now, a bit softer sometimes. Smiling more than he used to. Writing home more than he used to; she’s going to have to give him the damn bird with the white-feathered breast because he won’t stop sneaking it out of the rookery when she’s not there.

Leliana finds herself glancing over her shoulder for a brief moment, back to the pavilion. Asha is obscured behind a pillar--but she catches Cullen staring at the spot where she must sleep, the most achingly tender look she’s ever seen on his face. It nearly makes her pause, but she turns away once more and makes her way back into Skyhold’s main body.

True love is a rare and precious thing--a gift that she had given once, but hadn’t been blessed with in return. Not from the person she had wanted. And not, she has come to think in recent years, from the Maker either.  
  
But she still knows it when she sees it, there in the garden. Like a rose on the vine, beautiful and somehow unspoiled by the ugliness of the world. Flourishing in the most unexpected place.  
  
If Leliana ensures that nobody else comes to bother the lovers after that, it is her secret to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a bit of background context on Leliana's thoughts, the HOF was a Dalish woman who started out mistrusting all humans and ended up falling in love with Alistair. Unlikely pairings that go mistrust --> slowly becoming friends --> mutual pining --> true love that could annihilate every bad thing on the planet are like crack to me tbh. I need my fix.
> 
> Up next: okay, this time it really will be Ferelden.


	23. Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The village of Honnleath is a sleepy little thing, not entirely recovered from the effects of the Blight even over a decade later. Its fields are small, too much bare space in between the farmhouses on the outskirts. Even the main square is rather quiet in the early afternoon, a handful of merchants and ordinary folk going about their lives. Only Haven was smaller, at the very beginning, before the Inquisition had it bursting at the seams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me @ myself: you need all this dialogue?  
> myself @ me: i didn't spend hours headcanoning this shit not to include it, okay.
> 
> In all seriousness, this is that whole 'fleshing things out in the blank spaces Bioware left in between' thing. Also an excuse for shameless fluff. Anywho. Disgustingly long chap. I've got the flu so I'm gonna re-edit when I'm not Nyquil-drunk. Love y'all.

_"A boy with a coin he found in the weeds,_   
_with bullets and pages of trade magazines,_   
_close to a car that flipped on the turn_   
_when God left the ground to circle the world."_   
**\-- 'Boy With a Coin' by Iron & Wine**

* * *

 

_Asha,_

_We are well, and glad to hear from you as always. I’m afraid trade with Wycome’s merchants has gone very scarce, but Harea will make much use of the herbs you sent, I am sure._

_As for the material from the Graves--I have no words with which to describe the joy in my heart. You have many responsibilities on your shoulders, da’lath’in. We are so very grateful to you; despite your duties as Inquisitor, you still remember the clan. And you have provided us with a wealth of knowledge. I have lingered over the inscriptions you took from the vallasdahlen. To see the names of those who fought so hard to preserve what had been lost and what we had gained--it is humbling. My heart trembles from the weight of it._

_I can only imagine what it must have been like for you, dear Asha, to walk where they once walked. You frame your words as wishful sentiment, but know that if a day comes when we may all tread those forest paths together, it will be the greatest in the history of our clan._

_If I may, there is still a bit of knowledge I seek. Though you are very far, somehow, I sense I would not be wrong if I assume that you are withering under these words as you read them._

_Commander Cullen. There are a great many things I might ask about him. There is much I am curious to know. I’ve had correspondence with him, once; perhaps he told you. I wrote to thank him for sending so many fine soldiers to defend us against those bandits. He wrote back to say that he needed no thanks--to keep your family safe was all that mattered. But of course, he thanked me in return for the ironwort._

_Thinking on that, and on who you are, I hope that I already know the answer--but still, I must ask. Just one question for now, but the one that matters most. Is he a good man?_

_May we hear from you soon._

_\-- Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

 

XXX

 

Asha wakes violently, rocketing up in bed and pulling desperate gasps for breath into her lungs; eyes wide, she jerks the sheets away and stumbles to the window. Thin rays of moonlight slice through the darkness, and she presses her cheek to the cool glass and stares out into the stillness of Rainesfere at this late hour. Slowly, the phantom warbling in her ears begins to fade. The bloody glow behind her closed eyelids when she blinks melts back into nothing. Her breathing quiets, but her shoulder still aches.

A soft knock startles her away from the window; from the other side of her door, the guardsman’s voice comes. “Your Worship?”

Asha draws an unsteady breath, tugging at the loose locks of her hair, wrapping them around her fingers to focus. “I’m alright,” she says, not moving. “Just a… an unfortunate dream.”

“Should I send for anything?” he asks. “Tea, or food?”

Asha stifles a weak laugh, crossing to the door. It opens with a creak; she pokes her head out and finds the young guardsman watching her with concerned, guileless eyes. She cocks her head to the side. “Did Commander Cullen give you orders to be extra accommodating?”

The young man reddens tellingly.

This time, Asha does laugh--a low sound, fond. She shakes her head and says, “I’ll go down and get it myself, thank you.” She pauses before shutting the door and adds, “And tell the commander that I’m not made of glass, so he can stop telling his men to mother me.”

The guardsman’s speedy transformation from red-faced to white as a sheet is impressive. “I…” he starts weakly. “I, er… Should I… repeat that exactly, Your Worship?”

Asha manages--barely--to not let out an inelegant snort. “No; you look a little too green to get posted in the Fallow Mire. It was only a joke,” she says, smiling and not mentioning that she might just tell Cullen herself. “As you were.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” the guardsman replies, snapping back to attention. Her sensitive ears catch his sigh of relief when she shuts the door.

Asha emerges from her room a little while later, dressed in an embroidered, fur-trimmed tunic and supple leather leggings. Josephine had insisted on packing her wardrobe for her, each piece an oddly complimentary mesh of Ferelden and Dalish design.

 _“It will gain you great love from the people of Rainesfere if you look like one of them,”_ she had said. Considering Ferelden fashions are comfortable and utilitarian, she hadn’t argued.

And it had worked all too well; the common area of the inn’s ground floor is still surprisingly full for the late hour, all eyes falling on her when she descends the steps. It takes everything she has not to freeze up, to be able meet their calls and bright smiles with a welcoming look.

A serving girl darts over to her, bobbing in a quick curtsy. “Inquisitor!” she gasps, beaming. “Are ye needing anything?”

“Just--” she begins, but her breath catches in her throat when she glances out and spots Cullen, still armored and seated at a table by the hearth. Aside from the papers strewn across the surface, the space is otherwise unoccupied. His eyes glint gold in the firelight, softening when they see her. “Just a small pot of spiced tea, please,” she says, turning back to the girl. “I’ll be over by the fire.”

“Of course, Yer Worship,” the girl chirps, disappearing to the kitchen.

Cullen’s smile fades when Asha sinks into the chair across from him. “Are you alright?” he asks, catching the weariness in her eyes. “Trouble sleeping?”

Asha gives him a wry look. “If I say yes, are you planning to order your men to form up and sing me a lullaby?”

Cullen rolls his eyes and turns back to his work. “Thank the Maker you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” he says dryly.

Asha’s foot darts out to sharply nudge his under the table; considering how public the area they sit is, it’s the extent of contact they’ll have. “If only we knew where yours got off to, ma vhenan,” she teases, watching the way that the corner of his mouth quirks up into a faint half-smile. She relaxes, slightly, and says in a quieter tone, “Just a nightmare. It usually happens, after these sort of things.”

Cullen glances up from his work again, brow furrowed and eyes sharp with worry, but whatever he might’ve said is silenced by the approach of the serving girl. She bows and deposits a tea tray--with two cups and a small platter of shortbreads--on the table. She accepts their murmured thanks with a grin and slips away.

Asha slides the shortbreads towards Cullen with a knowing look, lips twitching. Cullen looks like he _wants_ to smile, but the worry weighs him down, holds him back. He presses his hand to the table, right next to hers, the edge of their fingers brushing; he can’t touch her as he wants to.

“Are you alright?” he asks again.

Asha exhales sharply, mirth fading. They’d arrived for their single day in Rainesfere early that morning, and everything had been as expected. Construction on the destroyed freehold was well on its way to completion, the men stationed were ready to rotate out with a new group and return to Skyhold, and the people of the bannorn had received Asha’s presence very well.

But then, a rift had opened up right outside of the village. Whether it had been mere coincidence or a reaction to Asha’s proximity, no one was certain. Asha had led some troops to dispatch the demons and seal it while Cullen and the rest had kept the villagers safe--but it had been taxing without the usual skill of her inner circle. She’d retired to bed rest in the early evening, while the sun still hung just over the horizon.

And Cullen’s eyes now linger sadly on her shoulder, at the place where she is bandaged because a terror’s spindly claws had sunk deep. A blow meant for another soldier that she had taken. A sense of humor, she hadn’t lost--but the blood had been plenty. Too much.

“I’m fine,” she whispers, fighting the urge to take his hand. She busies herself with pouring tea so that she won’t think on it, the rich fragrance wafting over them. “So you can stop--what is it that Leliana calls it? Self-flagellating?”

Cullen sighs, bringing a hand to rub at the tension in the base of his neck. “I am not being unreasonable.”

Asha glances up at him through her lashes, the rim of the cup against her lips. She hums skeptically and pushes the platter of shortbreads even closer. “Are you certain?”

 _“Asha_. _”_ Her name practically comes out as a low growl; she bites her lip, knowing now is not the time to be amused.

“It’s my job, Cullen,” she murmurs. She keeps both hands clenched around the cup even as she thinks of reaching for his and brushing her fingers over the tops of his knuckles. A beat passes, and then she sighs. “And, in all honesty, probably my fault; I think being close to the Anchor tears the Veil when it’s threadbare.”

Cullen’s brows knit; he looks unhappy with her words. His throat works for a moment, grip on a report so tight that it crumples in his hand. He doesn’t seem to notice. His guilt is almost palpable when he says, dejectedly, “I didn’t bring you here to put you in any danger.”

“I know,” she says, eyes shining. “But some things can’t be helped.”

“Well, it isn’t happening when we get to--” Cullen snaps his mouth shut, teeth clicking; he narrows his eyes at her wicked grin.

“Finish your sentence,” Asha says, goading him. The details of where they ride out to in the morning from here are a close-kept secret, and no amount of questions have ever gained her an answer. Hardly even a decent hint. For a man who doesn’t know how to bluff, he’s managed to evade the subject surprisingly well.

He smirks. “No.”

Asha huffs and clucks her tongue as she leans back in her seat and presses her foot against his. As far as intimidation tactics go, it’s probably the least effective. “Unless you’re going to blindfold me for the ride, I will figure it out on the way there.”

Cullen slowly arches a brow. “Don’t tempt me.”

Asha snorts. “Oh,” she drawls, leaning forward. “I see you’ve found your sense of humor.”

They sit for a while longer after that in comfortable silence. Asha, not wanting to return to her room and potentially to her bad dreams, doesn’t tease Cullen about working so late. She feels calmer now with the spiced tea warming her insides, seated across from him as he reads, studying the way the lovely glow of the firelight spills over his body. Her gaze lingers on his face whenever he pops a shortbread into his mouth; his eyes brighten every time, an almost boyish look that is endearing.

 _“It’s just butter and sugar,”_ she’d heard Josephine describe them once with a sigh. _“Fereldan tastes are so simple.”_

Asha smiles when Cullen slides the platter back over, the last treat saved for her. She lets out a soft huff of laughter as she takes it; the buttery sweetness melts on her tongue, and her heart flutters rapidly in her chest. There is much to be said for the comfort of simplicity.

“You walk into danger every day,” he says after a long silence, watching her. There’s a touch of melancholy in his gaze and voice, and she realizes he is thinking of the rift again. “I wanted to take you away from that. If only for a moment.”

Asha closes her eyes against the prick of pain that blooms in her heart; his best laid plans, gone slightly awry by something neither of them could control. “You can’t always keep me safe,” Asha reminds him gently, hating the way that he winces, gutted by the fact. That will always be a sensitive subject--especially considering Haven and Adamant--even though it is a truth he has no choice but to accept. Despite the others that linger in the large room, Asha reaches out and presses her palm to the top of his hand anyway. “But you always make me _feel_ safe. That counts for a lot.”

His breath hitches in his throat, her ears twitching at the sound. His smile is a tentative thing. “Really?”

Her eyes sparkle in the firelight. “Yes, vhenan,” she says, as though it should be obvious. “Always.”

Cullen is a perfect gentleman, escorting her back to her room later when her eyes begin to droop with the effort of staving off sleep. They will be leaving at first light, unaccompanied by troops only because there are enough Inquisition patrols on the road--and likely Leliana’s own scouts operating covertly--that there is no need. Asha had been delighted at the prospect of travelling relatively alone with him, but now she wonders, at the feel of his hand braced firmly on the small of her back as they ascend the stairs, if he doesn’t regret the lack of a guard for the journey.

The young guardsman posted at her door wisely turns on his heel and marches to the end of the hall, standing at attention at the door to Cullen’s room all the way down. Asha presses her fingers to her mouth, a laugh vibrating in her throat. Cullen lets out a flustered huff, which only makes her laugh more.

“He seems like a nice boy,” Asha says lowly, smiling. Cullen snorts.

“He’s young,” he says, watching Asha unlatch the door and turn, standing over the threshold. “And hasn’t been enlisted long enough to get cheeky.”

“Small blessings.”

Cullen lets out a breath of laughter. “Indeed,” he says, still remaining a perfectly respectable distance from her even as his gaze traces the planes of her face, a touch longingly. Asha feels an answering ache in the pit of her gut; she would like nothing more than to wrap her arms around him and tug him into the room with her. She might not be so wary of sleep if he were tangled in the sheets with her.

But now is not the time. Asha tips her head towards him, a smirk playing about the corners of her lips. “Sleep well, Commander,” she says, formal for propriety’s sake--but the words sound closer to a purr, an order to a lover and not a subordinate.

The shiver that runs through Cullen delights her. His eyes glint, pupils blowing wide as he looks down at her. “Inquisitor,” he says, the word a dark rumble in her ears.

Asha grins, heat rising to her cheeks. Her fingers tighten around the doorframe, though she can’t quite tell if it’s for the sake of holding her up or holding onto something that isn’t him. “Go on,” she says, breathless.

His parting smirk lingers in her mind, after, even when she drops into unconsciousness. Her rest isn’t dreamless. But instead of a red glow and a thin, otherworldly keen filling her mind, it is honey-gold that flashes in her vision, heat and hardness against her body, surrounding her, and a deep, Fereldan accent in her ear. Gasping her name. Moaning.

Asha jerks awake in the morning, pre-dawn’s blue light spilling across the sheets as a half-finished cry tears from her lips. She shudders, boneless, sinking back into the bed as warmth flickers, fizzles through her. Sated and unfulfilled all at once. She sighs, dragging a hand across her face, feeling the uncomfortable sear of pain in her shoulder at the motion.

“You look better,” remarks Cullen when she meets him by the stables within the hour. Their mounts are waiting, packs and supplies prepared.

Asha takes the reins of her hart, letting it fondly nuzzle her hand as she gives it a quick pat. “I slept very well,” she replies nonchalantly. Her face warms.

“I’m glad,” he replies, seating himself on his horse. “Our destination is three days out; you’ll need your strength.”

Asha nods, excitement bubbling bright and wild in her chest as she swings herself up onto her own mount with a practiced ease. Wherever Cullen wants to take her--wants enough to leave Skyhold and bring her along--must be incredibly important. “Lead the way.”

 

XXX

 

The village of Honnleath is a sleepy little thing, not entirely recovered from the effects of the Blight even over a decade later. Its fields are small, too much bare space in between the farmhouses on the outskirts. Even the main square is rather quiet in the early afternoon, a handful of merchants and ordinary folk going about their lives. Only Haven was smaller, at the very beginning, before the Inquisition had it bursting at the seams.

Asha doesn’t put two and two together, though, until Cullen softly says the name. He holds it in his mouth, awkwardly familiar. And then she understands why he’d dressed only in simple Fereldan travel clothes, kept his armor tucked away as they’d packed up camp and set out for the final stretch of their trip that morning. Why nobody spared them more than a glance as they passed by on their way to the inn to book two rooms. Why even as he looks around now, eyes brightening whenever he seems to recognize something, he seems relieved that nobody recognizes him.

Why he looks so nervous when she says, quietly, “This was your home.”

Cullen swallows hard, struggling to meet her eyes. “I… Yes,” he says. “I never came back, after--”

His words choke off in his throat when Asha presses herself against his side, her gloved fingers twining through his own and squeezing hard. A comfort they can have out in the open, when nobody knows who they are. He looks at her then, and her eyes are glassy, heart full to bursting with tenderness and awe at the gift of _knowing_ this part of him. This life he’d had--what used to be his home, the memories tucked away, out of reach for a long time.

“Show me?” she asks.

His fingers tremble for a brief moment before tightening, squeezing back. “Of course,” he says.

“Is it very different now?” Asha asks when they stop outside a quaint building, a bit bigger than the rest--but still relatively small. More wood than stone, well-kept flowerbeds lining the path up to the doors where weathered statues of Andraste flank each side.

The chantry, where Cullen used to beg the Templars to train him. She glances at him now, hand still clasped in hers. His face is surprisingly blank, but there’s a rawness to his voice when he says, “Some things.” A beat passes. “This still looks the same, though. Mostly.”

“Do you want to go inside?” Cullen startles at the question like she’s sent a jolt of electricity straight through his spine. Asha’s voice is soothing, as though speaking to a cornered animal; he looks like one, panic edging into his eyes as his mind begins to go somewhere far. “You don’t have to,” she says. “I thought you might, but it’s alright, vhenan.”

Cullen blinks hard, reorienting himself. He looks down at her, a small pucker appearing between his brows when they furrow. “I don’t--I don’t know,” he says. He draws a deep breath through his nose, fingers squeezing hers involuntarily. His voice is a bit calmer when he asks, hesitantly, “Would you come with?”

“No,” she says neutrally. She hopes that the lack of disapproval in her tone and expression softens the blow, but Cullen still winces. Whether it’s because she’s rejected him, or because he realizes just what he’s asked of her--a Dalish elf without the protection of her title here and now--she can't tell.

“Forgive me,” he mumbles, shame coloring his cheeks. He shoves his free hand deep into his pocket, fidgeting. “That was… Sorry.”

Asha steps closer and leans her head against him, just barely reaching his shoulder. “It’s alright, vhenan,” she soothes; she can’t recall a time she’s ever seen him so wholly consumed by nerves, and she would be lying if she pretended that it didn’t worry her. “I’m not angry, and you don’t need to be ashamed of asking--or whatever negative thing it is you’re thinking,” she says pointedly.

The color on his face deepens, but his gaze isn’t quite so troubled when he glances at her.

“I’m glad that you would want me there,” she murmurs. “But I can’t. You can, though--take all the time you need.”

“No,” he breathes, eyes back on the chantry, lingering over the wooden doors. Something--nostalgia, perhaps--flashes through his gaze for a brief moment. But it is gone when he turns away from the building, taking her with. “There is somewhere else I’d like to show you.”

Asha smiles, eyes glimmering in the light. “Oh?” she whispers, keeping close to his side. “And what would that be?”

Cullen’s expression softens, brightening considerably when he glances down at her. His lips quirk up at the corner in that half-smile she loves so much; it sends a flurry of affection thrumming through her. “The reason I brought you here in the first place; it’s not far.”

Asha brings his hand up, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Lead the way,” she chirps.

He takes her down a well-trod dirt path that winds out of town, on the opposite side from the main road. It’s a little under an hour’s walk through quiet, natural scenery; there are no farmhouses, no fields of crops or livestock. The only thing surrounding them is the tall grass, bent occasionally by the mild breeze. Eventually, the dirt path disappears. Despite that, Cullen still leads her silently through the land, relying on memory. Her heart thumps heavily; it’s not unlike how she once was, treading through unmarked forests on an invisible path that she knew like the back of her own hand.

The destination is a small, forgotten dock at the end of a lake. Its placid waters shimmer in the vibrant rays of sunset spreading across the sky, lily pads and lotuses dotting the surface. Asha’s breath catches at the sight of it, so peaceful and lovely, far enough from the village that it seems a new land entirely. Evergreens stand tall and proud on a little spot of land across the way. In the far distance, the Frostbacks meet the sky.

“Where are we?” she asks softly, the wood of the dock creaking beneath their feet. She wants to know what makes this place significant, wants to know what part it played in the more innocent times of his life.

Cullen smiles faintly, releasing her hand at last, watching her kneel at the dock’s edge, tugging off her gloves so she can dip her fingers into the cool water. The sight of her here makes him ache, a need that he hadn’t expected.

“Growing up in Honnleath, there weren’t many places to get away,” he says, leaning against the piling. “But this place was always quiet.”

The contentment in his voice draws a pleased smile from her. She has a brief thought of him, young and lanky with sun-kissed hair, sitting in this very spot. “Did you often come here to escape?” she asks, a teasing lilt to her tone.

There’s a wry twist to his mouth, now, though his eyes dance with laughter. “I loved my siblings, but they were _very_ loud,” he says by way of explanation; Asha laughs, shaking her head. “I would come here to clear my head.” He gazes out at the rippling waters, small waves lapping at the shore. “Of course, they always found me eventually.”

Asha shifts, sits cross-legged and scoots to make room beside her. She gazes up at Cullen expectantly, a hum of approval escaping her when he obliges and sits next to her. She shifts back, pressing their arms together as they watch the water. “Were you happy here?” she asks softly.

“I was,” Cullen says. He glances at her, taking her hand in his. “I still am.”

Warmth pricks at the corners of her eyes; Asha swiftly blinks it away, lips quivering. The silence stretches between them as the sun begins its slow descent beyond the Frostbacks. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers. In a way, it almost reminds her of home--surrounded by nature, undisturbed.

Cullen swallows hard past the tightness in his throat. In a way, he feels a bit out of place--it’s been so long, and so much about him has changed. But he likes the way that Asha looks, here; she was born in nature. Belongs to it, even. She looks right. “Did you ever have a place like this?” he asks. “Somewhere you could escape?”

Asha cocks her head to the side. “Not a place so much as people,” she answers. “When I was very little, mamae was always there. And when my magic manifested, after she passed, I had Ellana.” Her voice trembles, just a bit, on the name. She breathes deeply. “And after that, Keeper Deshanna. My duties, in a way, were an escape. I always had tasks, studies to focus on.” She lets out a sharp breath, lips quirking up. “Which was good, because when I was little, I was practically untamable.”

Cullen's brows climb high. “Really?”

Asha hums in affirmation. “I was a terror. My tantrums were the stuff of _legend_.”

“Oh, Maker,” Cullen chokes at the thought of her--the Inquisitor, fierce and with a focus unmatched now--as a shrieking brat. The disparity makes him let out a bark of laughter, catches him off-guard with the force of his own reaction--but the idea is so _funny_ , and he only laughs harder when Asha smacks his chest with the back of her hand, her face gone ruddy.

“You can laugh,” she mutters, ears fluttering at the wonderful, rare sound of it. “But remember to be grateful that I grew out of that. The Inquisition has its hands full enough without needing to manage its leader.”

“That is certainly true,” Cullen chuckles.

Asha glances sidelong at him and asks, “Well then, what about you?” She quirks a brow, smirking. “I admit, I can’t imagine you being a troublemaker.”

Cullen gives her a sheepish smile, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck. “I wasn’t,” he says. “Being the eldest son of a farmer meant discipline and work. Even as a child, I had responsibilities, but I liked that.”

Asha leans her head against his shoulder, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “That, I can imagine,” she murmurs, feeling him vibrate with faint laughter. He shifts, lets go of her hand to wrap his arm around her back, fingers curling over her waist; Asha sighs happily and sinks against him. “What was it like?” she asks, thinking of her own experiences--wondering if there’s something to compare. “Farm life? I keep thinking of my clan--there was always work to do. Everybody helped. Getting up before dawn, repairing aravels that needed it, foraging and hunting even when we had plenty of trade with merchants...”

Cullen remains silent in thought for a moment before he answers, “The work was different. But the effort sounds the same; there was always something.” He leans down, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “I mostly helped with the animals. Mia was better than me at handling the crops.”

Asha giggles, remembering that he has little interest in plants. Preferring livestock makes sense for him. Dusk slowly settles over them, cool hues the color of her eyes shooting across the sky as the world darkens. The lake is still beautiful despite the fading of the light.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back to that life?” she asks. She tilts her head back, craning her neck so that she can meet his eyes; he hadn’t expected the question. “After all of this is over?”

Cullen’s breath hitches in his throat. Farm life would be familiar. Far more peaceful than anything he’s known lately, for certain. But his answer is anything but certain. “Maybe. I don't know. I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he admits. “I doubt it would be a stretch. I already work from sunup until sundown.”

“ _Past_ sundown,” Asha says. Cullen smiles into her hair.

“Yes, well. The hours wouldn’t be a bother, obviously.” A beat passes, and Asha can feel him frowning. “Growing crops would.”

She laughs then, a bright chime of sound. “I’m sure you could just raise livestock,” she says, smiling. Her breath catches in her throat for a moment, and she adds, far quieter, “Or you could always… ask me. For help.” She blinks up at him, desperately trying to look nonchalant, _desperately_ tamping down the heat that threatens to blaze high on her face. “I do love plants.”

Asha’s efforts at remaining unaffected are smashed to pieces; Cullen turns a rather impressive shade of red, which makes her respond in kind. A shaky breath rattles from him, and when he speaks, it’s in unsteady starts because the image she’s presented him with is beautiful and impossible. Surely impossible.

And yet he still manages, “Y-You… I… I know the Dalish keep to a nomadic lifestyle, but…” Asha’s heart seizes on that little word, and Cullen looks as though he might faint; Asha presses her fingers to her mouth, biting back the urge to joke that he should remember to breathe. She feels like she can’t breathe either, though, heart racing. “Could you… ever see yourself living… like that? Settling somewhere... more permanent?”

_'With me?'_

The question makes the flame in her heart burst, heat searing through her blood, warming her skin until she radiates with it. Asha tears her gaze away from him, missing the way his eyes go wide in wonderment because he knows enough of her to understand that the reaction is anything but bad.

But Asha still keeps her gaze away, fixed on the calm, cool lake until she no longer feels mortified by her own transparency. And the only response she has, the only one that--somehow, strangely--makes sense, is a trembling but certain, “I doubt it would be a stretch.”

Cullen is on her before he knows what he is doing, turning her in his arms, catching her face in his hands and kissing her with such a desperate ferocity that they both go tumbling flat on the surface of the dock. Asha gasps against his mouth, opening under him, her hands rising to tangle themselves in his hair. He groans, presses closer and drinks in the heat on her tongue, that familiar, tingling warmth that undoes him. There’s nothing else in the world that would feel half as right, half as good as this moment, having her in his arms, rocking against him and wordlessly demanding _more_.

He would give it to her. He would give her everything, anything she ever needed, ever wanted--Asha, who does the impossible. Who doesn’t just _consider_ a life after the Inquisition with a man like him, which is the most he would ever allow himself to hope for, but who tentatively agrees to it.

When they part at last, he stares at her. Dark hair spread beneath her, chest heaving. Eyes glimmering, heavy-lidded. Lips swollen from his ardor. And when her tongue darts out to swipe against the bottom one, as if she can taste him, it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to take her right here on the dock.

Cullen huffs, face flaming, heart hammering loudly against his ribs. What a memory that would be.

Asha reaches for him, presses her palm to the stubble on his jaw and slides her touch over his skin. Gentle. Calming. “Ma vhenan,” she whispers, and Cullen rests his forehead against hers with a contented sigh. She smiles, tipping her chin up and kissing him once more. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He blinks and pulls back at that, remembering the reason why he’d wanted to bring her to this lake in the first place. Cullen sits up, his hands on Asha’s wrists to tug her along with him; at her questioning look, he says, “There’s… I actually had one more thing I wanted to show you.”

“Oh?”

His hand goes back to his pocket then. “Yes. I…” He trails off into silence for a moment, glancing out at the water, and then back to her. “The last time I was here was the day I left for Templar training.” Something flashes between his fingers when he withdraws his hand; Cullen lays it flat in the center of his palm to show her. “My brother Branson gave me this. It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck.”

It’s a large silver coin, shiny and with the image of Andraste’s face etched in the side that faces up. Asha blinks down at it, heart tightening in her chest at the sound of Cullen’s voice as he reminisces.

“Templars are not supposed to carry such things,” he says softly. “Our _faith_ should see us through.” There’s a bite to those words--to the idea that he faintly resents, even now. Perhaps especially now.

The coin had been more reliable than faith, after all.

Asha doesn’t know every detail of that, though. She only knows of the stories that he has shared with her, of the eager boy he had been, wanting to be the best of them. “You broke the Order’s rules?” she asks, a touch incredulous. A faint smile plays about the corners of her lips. “I’m shocked.”

He gives her a wry smile. “Until a year ago, I was very good at following them. Most of the time.”

 _‘Even when I shouldn’t have,’_ he thinks. But that is not his life any longer. It will never be his life again. And he’ll never stop trying to atone for all the rules that he should have broken but hadn’t.

He swallows a sigh, studying the coin in his palm. The one comfort he’d had, even on days when he’d looked down at it and felt too unworthy, too ugly inside, too undeserving. When he’d considered flinging it somewhere he could never find it again.

He is glad, now, that he’d kept it. “This was the only thing I took from Ferelden that the Templars didn’t give me,” he says, looking back to Asha. She watches him with a fond smile on her face, affection practically radiating from her. His own feelings seize his heart, squeezing it tight, making it beat and belong to her. He holds out the coin. “Humor me.”

Asha blinks in surprise, brows climbing. She hesitates for a moment, wondering if he is certain and wondering if it is really alright for her to lay her hands on it--his precious possession. The one thing he’d carried. But his gaze is so earnest that she reaches out and lays the tips of her fingers against the ridges of the coin’s surface.

Cullen reaches out and claps his free hand over hers, pressing the coin into her palm. “You were right when you said I can’t always keep you safe,” he says. “But this… We don’t know what you’ll face before the end. Perhaps you’ll need… more luck. This can’t hurt.”

Asha closes her fingers firmly over the coin, wet warmth welling in her eyes; she beams, drawing up on her knees and burying her free hand into his hair, pulling him close enough to press a firm kiss upon his brow. “Thank you,” she whispers fiercely. “I’ll keep it safe.”

Cullen wraps his arm around her waist, burying his face in the crook of her good shoulder. “Good,” he breathes. “I know it’s foolish, but... I’m glad.”

Asha shakes her head, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat. “It’s not foolish at all,” she says. “It’s lovely.”

He hesitates for a moment before he speaks again. “I was worried that you might not like it,” he confesses. “With… Andraste on it, and after the chantry…”

Asha smiles. “Well, you’re not trying to convert me, so I assure you, it’s fine,” she quips. “More than fine.”

Cullen glances up at her, fighting off his amusement. He means to be serious about this, at least. “I may not know much about your faith, but I know it is important to you.” His gaze softens with gratitude. “Which is why I’m happy that you’ll keep the coin.”

Asha leans down and gently nuzzles him, saying, “Of course I will, ma vhenan. You have nothing to worry about.” And then she pulls back, one ear twitching. “Would you like to know? About my faith?”

Cullen’s blinks, his arms tightening around her. “I would,” he says. “That part of you always seemed so private, though. I… I worried I might offend you again if I tried to ask.”

Asha lets out a soft huff of laughter. “If you think I’m private about it, that’s proof you don’t know much,” she teases. “For example, the garden. Not my herbs, but all the flowers I’ve planted; have you noticed those?”

“Of course.”

“I plant them in remembrance of who we’ve lost,” she says softly. “The Dalish plant trees--vallasdahlen. But there’s not enough room for that in Skyhold, so flowers serve that purpose. Do you know the cluster of wildflowers by the chantry? The white ones with the red center?” When Cullen nods, her expression changes, turns into a melancholy thing. “Andraste’s Grace. For Roderick.”

The name--and the memories that come with it--hit him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t known, and now he finds himself awed by it. Now he understands why she spends so much of her free time in the garden, tending to all the plants; he’d thought it was a simple hobby or because it reminded her of home, but her faith had been behind much of it. More than he'd known.

He wonders what else he doesn’t know--says it aloud, actually, and Asha smiles. “That’s not even the most obvious display,” she says, and then she gestures to the branches inked on her face. “Our vallaslin are a constant representation of what we believe.”

“They represent your gods, don’t they?” he asks--that much, he knows.

Asha nods. “When we come of age, we pick a patron deity and sit for our vallaslin. It’s a ritual. A drop of our blood with sacred ink that only the Keeper can apply. It takes a long time.”

Cullen winces. “That must have been painful,” he says, thinking of the vigil that had been the manifestation of his own faith’s strength. It seemed nothing by comparison--not that part of initiation, at least.

Asha shrugs. “Yes. But we endure it; the ritual must be done in complete silence. You can’t waver, not even once. Any expression of pain means you aren’t ready. That’s why I waited two years past my coming of age--I wanted to be ready. There’s no shame in needing to try multiple times; many do. But I didn’t want to.”

Cullen stares at the branches--at the intricacies that must have taken hours to complete. And all that time, not one sound from her. He hesitates briefly, but then asks, “Is it… Um. May I?”

He gestures awkwardly to her face, and Asha sinks her teeth into her lower lip, secretly amused. He’s had his hands on more intimate places before without a second thought, but she refrains from saying that--she only nods. His touch is cool against her forehead, fingers tracing the lines across her brow with something close to awe. She shivers, pleased.

“What deity does yours represent?”

“Mythal,” Asha answers with all the reverence that the goddess deserves. She says the name like many say Andraste’s. “In my clan, it’s common for those who will be a Keeper to pick either Mythal, the All-Mother and Protector, or Dirthamen, the Keeper of secrets and knowledge.”

Cullen watches her, thoughtful. “Worshipping the Maker means you forsake all others,” he says. “It isn’t like that in your faith, is it?”

Asha shakes her head. “We pay respects and pray to each Creator,” she explains. “All of them gave the People something that we couldn’t be without. But when we choose a patron deity, that is our declaration of which one we intend to represent with the way we lead our lives.” She taps a finger to her brow, just for a moment. “I would never presume to be like a goddess. But Mythal was a protector of her people. She carried out justice instead of vengeance, and she did it with love in her heart… I can think of no better example to follow.”

Cullen swallows hard and says, softly, “You are all that and more.”

Asha beams, flushing deeply; there is no higher praise than that, she thinks. She moves with him when he pulls her as close as she can get, his head returning to the crook of her neck where he presses a gentle kiss. Asha sighs, content, wrapping her arms around him and sinking against him.

“Thank you,” he whispers after a while.

Asha turns her head and lays a kiss upon his jaw. “What for?”

He hugs her tightly, and she feels him smile against her skin. “For humoring me. Coming here and accepting the coin.” Unsteadiness creeps into his voice when he adds, “And me, even though we are very different. Our lives and our faith.”

Asha’s laugh is gentle, a whisper of sound against his ear. “It doesn’t bother me as much as it used to,” she says, pulling back. “Not much at all, really. You don’t try to change me into something that I’m not.” She brushes her hand over his cheek and adds, “And after Haven, I realized that usually when people say, ‘Walk with the Maker’s blessing’ to me, they don’t mean it as an insult. No more than I mean it as one when I pray for Mythal’s blessings and protection over the Inquisition, or for Falon’Din to guide those we lose gently into the Beyond. We worship differently--but when it comes from a place of kindness, then that’s one thing we have in common.”

 Cullen’s expression is impossibly tender as he looks at her, memorizing the feel of this moment and of her in his arms. After this, they will return to Skyhold--to their respective roles and duties. This might be the last moment of true peace they have in a long while, and they both know this.

He reaches up and draws her closed fist--where the coin rests within--to his lips, laying a kiss against her knuckles. “Well, now you’ll have Mythal’s blessings and a bit of luck to go with it,” he murmurs.

Asha feels as though her heart might burst out of her chest at the way that Cullen says that. The words of her faith on his lips, nothing but accepting of who she is and what she believes. As he should be--but the sheer joy of it still makes her eyes water, an intense warmth in her throat like she’s swallowed the sun.

“A little luck never hurt anyone,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss him once more.

 

XXX

 

_Keeper Deshanna,_

_Even when separated by land and sea, you are still frighteningly perceptive. Cullen did not tell me about your correspondence--but that does sound like something he would say, because he is a good man. A wonderful man, though he rarely sees that. And I can’t help but laugh as I write this, because when we first met, I could hardly stand to be in the same room with him. I know you’ve encouraged me not to judge people unfairly, but it was very difficult not to do that with him in the beginning. I have learned, obviously._

_He is--_ (Here, a hasty scribble; which trait to start with?) _\--truly good at heart. He told me once that when he was young, he joined the Templars because he could think of no better calling than protecting those in need. He is an Andrastian, but not full of self-righteous Chantry fire. He is kind--very involved with training the troops even though he always has a million other things to do, and he somehow manages to give them all equal attention. But when he does take a moment to breathe, I can usually find him in the garden playing chess. He taught me how to play, and he lets me win even though he’s far better at it than I am._

_He sometimes needs to be reminded to eat a decent meal, but I never have to remind him to drink the tea. He’s admitted before that he envies our easy correspondence a bit; writing to his own family is not nearly as effortless for him. The burdens of his past, however, are not mine to tell. But I know them, and he knows mine._

_The thought ties my stomach in terrible knots, but I wish that you could meet him. Perhaps you might not like him. Perhaps the fact that he is an Andrastian human would bother you more, if you were faced with the reality of his presence. Even so._

_I like to think you would like him. If only for the fact that I am happier than I ever thought possible when I am with him._

_I hope this letter answers enough questions for now. I might not be able to write as often in the coming weeks--we are to go to Empress Celene’s masquerade ball at the Winter Palace at the month’s end. Though we hope for a decent outcome regarding the peace talks, nothing is ever that easy, and preparations will demand a great deal from me. Even so, I always look forward to word from you. Be well._

_\-- Asha_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: getting ready for a ball.


	24. Weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t just turn off my emotions, Vivienne,” Asha snaps, the anger sparking back to life within.
> 
> “Of course not,” she replies, as though the notion is both foolish and not at all the point. “But you will--you must--control them. Keep them under lock and key, because if the court knows how their words truly affect you, you lose. Every sneer, every slight, and every slur that you can possibly think of will come out that night because they want you to be weak--and they will do their best to draw out that weakness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends. Sorry for the wait. Warning: nasty Orlesian bullshit and also depiction of a panic attack/mental distress in general ahead.
> 
> EDIT: Also THANK YOU?? 100+ KUDOS???? WOW!!!

_"Cause if we knew where we belong,_   
_there'd be no doubt where we're from._   
_But as it stands, we don't have a clue--_   
_especially me, and probably you."_   
**\-- 'Especially Me' by Low**

* * *

 

Asha stares down at the perfumed invitation held gingerly between her fingers, lip curling. “Grand Duke Gaspard.”

She sneers the words as one would if they were talking about bogfisher shit.

Leliana purses her lips, hands folded primly behind her back as she shoots Josephine a look. Josephine’s smile is a bit brittle when she glances at Asha, but her voice is cheerful when she says, “I understand it is not the most desirable option to you--”

“Quite the understatement.”

“-- _but_ , it is out of our hands with this,” Josephine reminds her. “You--and the Inquisition--have now received a formal invitation to the ball by one of the key players in the Game. Declining is not an option. This is how we must proceed.”

Asha sets the invitation down at the edge of the war table, eyes on the glittering map marker placed atop Halamshiral. “I am aware, and I am still going to be angry about it for the rest of the day.”

From his place on the other side of the table, Cullen chuckles. Asha shoots him a mildly exasperated look.

“It could be worse,” Leliana says, amused. “We could have been a guest of someone whose motives are not nearly as transparent as Gaspard’s. It is obvious that if the Inquisition appears to favor his legitimacy, it will only elevate his claim as the ‘rightful’ ruler of Orlais. More so if you charm the court.”

“A chevalier counting on a _rabbit_ to help him ascend the throne?” Asha snaps bitterly. Sparks arc between her fingertips for half a breath, flashing in her eyes. “How ironic.”

“Quite the gamble, framed in those terms,” Leliana says. “Gaspard is confident in his own success, perhaps. But I suspect that it goes deeper than knowing the Inquisitor--Her Worship, Andraste’s Herald, divinely blessed--will be appearing by his side.”

Asha’s lips thin, jaw clenching, hands balling into tight fists; her ears press flatter against her skull with every title. Leliana is saying these things on purpose--and not to be respectful. “I see today we are testing my patience,” she remarks as evenly as she can.

Leliana and Vivienne, ruthless masters of the Game, have created their own sort of curriculum as a means of teaching Asha what she needs to know regarding the intricacies of not only surviving it, but succeeding at it. In the days since her return to Skyhold, they’ve taken to striking at random with coldness and cunning, forcing her to parry their verbal jabs or be cut deep. It is as useful as it is stressing, and Asha finds that she prefers Josephine’s etiquette lessons far more.

“You will face worse in front of the court,” Leliana reminds her matter-of-factly. Her eyes glint like those of a cat that has cornered a mouse. “Masks are a necessary part of the Grand Game, with good reason. Emotions are the easiest things to weaponize, and you are full of those.”

“Understood,” Asha bites out, back straightening. She forces herself to unclench her fingers, letting them fall loosely at her side. Her pulse throbs loudly in her ears as they quiver, returning to a neutral position, anger still simmering in her veins. She quirks a brow. “I’m not sure I appreciate the _training_ during a war council, though.”

Leliana smirks. “The moment you think you are completely in control is the moment your enemies will strike without mercy. It is… _satisfying_ to watch someone fall apart so quickly as a result. Remember that.”

This time, both brows climb high, and Asha glances to her other advisors. Josephine and Cullen are both wearing the same perturbed expressions. Asha lets out a slightly unsteady huff of laughter. “And I thought Vivienne was frightening.”

 

XXX

 

Of all the words that one might use to describe Vivienne, kind is never especially high on the list of potentials at any given moment. Less so if one is speaking not of Vivienne, but of Madame de Fer.

There is, to Asha, a difference.

Madame de Fer is cruel, and Asha struggles to set her expression to rights--to manage it into a glare, a sneer, anything that might serve to dispel the maelstrom of emotions that have rapidly spiraled out of her control. Hot tears roll down her cheeks, dripping from her chin with a little hiss of steam as they plop onto the cool stone floor.

_“What kind of Templar lets a knife-eared apostate bewitch him into her bed? Andraste would choose no such savage as her herald.”_

Vivienne watches her with a placid expression, a fine mask that gives away nothing. Her voice is toneless when she says, “Breathe, my dear.”

She sounds nothing like Keeper Deshanna, who was always gentle and kind when instructing her. She sounds nothing like an ally. She sounds like an outsider--a casual observer, studying the cracks in her expression.

Asha’s breath shudders through tightly clenched teeth. Lightning snaps in her eyes. “I don’t care about the Game; if you ever talk about him like that again--”

“The nobles of the court will be far kinder to Commander Cullen than they will be to you,” Vivienne says, unbothered by the prelude to a threat. “He might have no title outside of the Inquisition, but one look at him will be all they need to fall at his feet like dogs in heat. It is you that the insults will be meant for.” She eyes her critically. “And you must learn to control yourself when you hear them.”

“You have _no_ right--”

“This is not about _me_ ,” Vivienne interrupts her again, waving away the words with an airy gesture. “If you think the court will not use him against you, you are naive. Now, _breathe_.”

Asha’s hands are balled into fists so tight that she can feel the bite of her nails breaking the skin of her palms. She bows her head and stares at the floor, watching the tears fall with blurred vision, listening to the steady sound of them sizzling against the ground--one by one, until they slow, and then they stop, and then her lungs no longer feel like they’ve got claws seizing them in a vice grip. She’s right. She is right, and hate isn’t a strong enough word to describe how Asha feels about it.

She swallows hard and meets Vivienne’s gaze once more.

Vivienne is perched on the edge of the chaise in her own quarters, away from the prying eyes that might’ve fallen on her salon in the main hall. One long leg is crossed over the other, expression impassive as she waits for Asha to regain her wits. And it’s Vivienne, she knows, because Madame de Fer strikes like a viper and doesn’t bother to wait in between each attack.

But composing herself is still hard. Painfully so--Asha isn’t a fool. She isn’t naive. She _knows_ , she’s heard for months, that the Orlesian court is ruthless. That the Grand Game is for the highest stakes, is _deadly_. That there are rules upon rules, and for every path to success, there are a dozen more straight to failure.

 _‘The court will do worse,’_ she reminds herself. The favored warning of Sister Nightingale and Madame de Fer every time they deal a blow that makes her reel. Many times, she’d heard those words.

And yet none of those warnings mean a thing; none of them had preserved her from the flashfire of anger that had seared through her followed by _hurt_. Vicious and tearing at her insides.

It’s been many months since she’s heard a slur whispered when her back is turned, much less had one flung so casually in her face by someone she considers a friend. Even if it hadn’t been meant, even if it had only been used in this twisted semblance of training for a battle fought more with words than weaponry.

Still.

“Explain,” Asha hisses, breath quivering, hitched in her throat. “How exactly am I supposed to like the Orlesian nobles enough to win their favor if they’re going to say things like _that_?”

Vivienne’s eyes glimmer with approval at the sound of her cold rage, voice like shards of ice. Cutting. And then she smiles, a faintly twisted thing. As if Asha has said something equal parts pitiable and amusing. “Whyever would you _like_ them, my dear?”

Asha blinks, the anger abruptly winking out. “I’m meant to spend hours in their company,” she says hoarsely. “Mingling. Charming them.”

Vivienne tilts her head ever so slightly, arching a brow. “Yes. But liking them is completely unnecessary. They are tools, my dear. You must use them.”

Asha’s mouth twists, brow furrowing. As satisfying as it is to sometimes think about manipulating the Orlesian nobility to suit her whims--at the Winter Palace, in Halamshiral, where they happily dance and scheme on the bones of her people--it is different to hear it framed so casually.

As if it makes sense to talk about them as though they are things, not people.

Something acidic churns low in her gut, even now. “I’m not sure I know how,” she admits softly.

Vivienne’s expression softens for the briefest moment, so quickly Asha isn’t certain if she’s seen it right when it molds back into the inscrutable mask that she always wears. A pregnant pause stretches between them before she asks, “Do you recall our first meeting, my dear?”

Asha clasps her hands together, mind working. Vivienne and Leliana often change the subject without warning during their sessions together--a simple trick to keep her on her toes, or to constantly catch her off-guard, keep her stumbling until she wrests control back. Asha doesn’t know which intent is behind this particular question. “I do.”

Vivienne smiles, no feeling behind the motion. “You wouldn’t think a fool like Marquis Alphonse would be capable of successfully navigating the Game, would you? Not with that bumbling, incredibly public display of his.”

Recognition flares to life in Asha’s eyes as she recalls the insulting noble that had wanted to duel her right in the front parlor of the de Ghislain estate. She nearly lets her lips quirk up in amusement, but she forces her expression and her voice to remain steady. No genuine displays of emotion. “The thought does seem a bit of a strain on the imagination,” she says.

Another glint of approval in Vivienne’s eyes at the carefully mocking words. But that quickly fades. And then she says, voice dripping with derision, “I _do_ hope Duke Bastien puts out the lights before he touches her. But then, she must disappear in the dark.”

Asha loses the Game; her jaw drops open, horror overtaking her. “He--”

“My dear, your face.”

 _“Vivienne,”_ Asha gasps, taking a step towards her. Vivienne stiffens in the chaise--disapproval or discomfort, or perhaps both. But Asha will not let her reveal something so awful and have her think that it should be nothing more than a teachable moment.

Vivienne certainly tries to stay her own course, however. “As I said, the nobility will use every perceived weakness against you. They will try and cut you down sooner rather than later. And if you do not manage yourself, as I did, you will never see the opportunity to cut them back.”

Asha blinks. And then her hand, half-outstretched to comfort, slowly drops back to her side. “Were you hoping I’d tell you to kill him?” she asks, pieces to a puzzle clicking together in her mind.

Vivienne gives her a charming smile. “May I remind you, my dear, that you left the choice to me, and Alphonse walked away with his life. If nothing else.”

The memory of Vivienne’s fete is at the forefront of her mind; the Marquis, the circumstances, the words exchanged, and the people watching. Asha takes a step back and smoothly replies, “It would have reflected poorly upon you to kill a guest that hadn’t slighted you.” A beat passes. “At that time.”

A glimmer of approval flashes in Vivienne’s eyes. “Very good,” she says of Asha’s keen observation--her understanding of the Game. She sounds almost kind.

Asha accepts the praise, but she asks again, “Were you hoping I’d tell you to kill him?”

Vivienne slowly tilts her head to the side, studying her as though she is gauging her strength. After a long moment, she says, “I certainly wouldn’t have hesitated if that had been the case.” And then her eyes go hard, like iron. “And should some pompous noble slight you like the Marquis was foolish enough to do to me, may this moment prepare you. May you control yourself when you hear them call you a knife-ear, a savage, a spellbind, a blood mage, and everything else, because you will have heard it all before.”

“I can’t just turn off my emotions, Vivienne,” Asha snaps, the anger sparking back to life within.

“Of course not,” she replies, as though the notion is both foolish and not at all the point. “But you will--you _must_ \--control them. Keep them under lock and key, because if the court knows how their words truly affect you, you _lose._ Every sneer, every slight, and every slur that you can possibly think of will come out that night because they want you to be weak--and they will do their best to draw out that weakness.”

Asha grits her teeth, jaw shifting imperceptibly. This is nothing she hasn’t heard before. But the closer the date that they must leave for Halamshiral gets, the more trapped she feels. 

But the sharpness of Vivienne’s next words cut through the invisible snare that winds tight. “But you will be ready,” she says. “And they’ll realize they have no idea who they’re dealing with, my dear. And when _that_ happens, may your opportunity for revenge be as swift and satisfying as mine was.” She runs her gaze slowly over Asha and then inclines her head, a thin brow arching. “Are you ready to continue?”

Asha swallows hard; no is not an acceptable answer, especially when Vivienne has done her the courtesy--and it _is_ a courtesy--of asking. She relaxes her posture and, for a brief moment, wishes for steel to be forged in place of her spine. Perhaps then she wouldn’t feel so apprehensive about quietly replying, “Yes.”

 

XXX

 

The day after, Josephine, Vivienne, and Vivienne’s seamstress all sequester her in the war room for a final fitting. The mask they’ve commissioned for her from Serault glass rests snugly against her face, crafted in the design of Clan Lavellan’s heraldry--a cover of leaves over her brow and cheeks. The multicolored glitter catches the light whichever way she turns her head, and she listens with half an ear as they talk about what a stir a mask made of glass will cause among the nobilty.

“We might see more of these next season,” Vivienne murmurs, running a finger over the carefully blown design. “If our dear Inquisitor ends the night with Orlais wrapped around her little finger.”

Asha remains silent and doesn’t bend under the weight of their expectations. Not yet. But when they lace up her dress, the bone of the corset digging harshly into her ribs and preventing her from drawing a full breath, her fingers tremble.

The seamstress frowns when they all stand back to study her before striding forward and snatching up the silver chain at her neck. “I assume you will not be wearing this at the masquerade,” she says, slightly disdainful.

Asha’s expression remains neutral, but there is a slight edge to her tone when she says, “You know what they say about assumptions.”

The seamstress’ hand drops away as her brows rise. It is Josephine who steps in, laying a comforting hand against the woman’s arm and saying, “That locket holds one of the Inquisitor’s most prized possessions.”

“Which is why I had the finest jeweler in Val Royeaux craft it for her,” Vivienne says, eyeing the glitter of it against Asha’s chest. She knows as well, of course, what lies within the locket--a shining, silver coin with Andraste’s face stamped on one side. Cullen’s gift. Asha had gone to her to ask if she knew of anyone who could make a locket to keep it safe and sound, and close to her heart, always. Better than tucking it into her breast band and risking its loss.

Vivienne had delivered it to her mere days later--a small, silver filigree locket, hung on a delicate chain, that opened with a press of her finger. And it had been enchanted, Formari enchantment that sent protective and healing magic whispering through her blood when she wore it.

Vivienne had accepted no thanks. “A favor for a favor, my dear,” she’d said. “The value of the magical tomes you retrieved for me certainly is a match for this trinket, I think.”

When the seamstress still seems to hesitate in voicing her approval, Vivienne softly adds, “Unless, of course, you know of a piece finer than that of Baron Emeric Lemieux’s make.”

All of the blood drains from the seamstress’ face even as she gives Vivienne a bright, if a bit strained, smile. “Oh, _non_ ,” she gasps, reaching out for the chain once again. She falters at the flash of irritation in Asha’s eyes, and her hand drops back down to her side. “But perhaps we could tuck it underneath… the neckline--”

Asha reaches up--and manages not to wince at the discomfort of the corset squeezing her shifting torso--and drops the locket under the high neckline of her gown, out of sight. The hum of its magic is stronger directly against her skin. “Better?” she asks.

There is a flurry of agreement from both the seamstress and Josephine as they assure her that it can’t be seen underneath and that she looks radiant. Vivienne’s only response is a nod before she circles Asha and studies the fall of her skirts around her.

The day after that, Asha and her advisors hold a war council that lasts a few relatively peaceful hours before Leliana and Josephine shoo Cullen out of the room and beckon Vivienne--with a garment bag in her arms--inside.

“The dress is lovely, my dear; you will be the envy of every noble with a figure not half as fine as yours,” she says, though the words sound empty. And then, she goes for a cutting jab. “But it will be like throwing pearls upon swine if you cannot dance well in it. You must practice.”

And so she submits to the restriction of the fabric, and then she does her best to not let the swirling of her skirts tangle around her legs and trip her up. The mid-thigh slits up either side allow her to move freely--a necessity, Leliana had said, in case she finds herself needing to run. Run from what, she hadn’t said, but Asha can fill in the gaps.

There is an assassination plot against the Empress of Orlais, and the thought becomes more and more absurd every time it crosses her mind as she listens to Vivienne’s sharp count of _one-two-three_ while she whirls about the war room’s empty spaces.

There is an assassination plot against the Empress of Orlais, and Asha will be arriving on the arm of the man who is most likely to wish Celene dead.

There is an assassination plot against the Empress of Orlais, and Asha will be the only elf dressed in fine silks and jewels while others walk by and serve her drinks and treats. Her stomach turns.

There is an assassination plot against the Empress of Orlais, and Asha will be wearing a false smile with not too much teeth and no emotion behind it while the nobles talk about her like she is a thing and play games with lives. Her feet ache in the unfamiliar sandals she wears with the dress as Leliana snaps at her to mind her steps.

There is an assassination plot against the Empress of Orlais, Corypheus must not succeed, the civil war must not be allowed to continue and further consume the empire, Halamshiral’s slums are likely still nothing but ashes and burned bones, and--

And Leliana and Josephine are at her door early the next morning with grim faces and a missive for her to read.

 

_Ambassador Montilyet,_

_It has been my pleasure to meet Duke Antoine of Wycome and pay my respects on behalf of the Inquisition. The duke is a most friendly man. Indeed, I dare say he thinks the best of everyone, and has_ advisors _from as far away as_ Tevinter!  
  
_Duke Antoine assures me that he wishes the Inquisition well, and will offer us military support as soon as his city has recovered from a strange disease that has spread through most of the human population, though the elves in the alienage are thus far unaffected. This illness may explain why bandits were able to operate so close to Wycome with impunity: all the nobles and most of the soldiers have been weakened._  
  
_Any concerns I have raised, he say, can wait until then. The duke's Tevinter advisor has indicated an_ eagerness _to make my acquaintance, and it is becoming increasingly_ difficult _to_ resist _such a tempting offer._  
  
_Yours in haste,_ _  
Lady Guinevere Volant_

 

“Inquisitor,” Josephine murmurs when she sees Asha’s hands beginning to tremble. Her voice becomes more urgent than soothing when Asha glances up, eyes wide and wild. “Though I fear for her safety, Lady Guinevere is a _brilliant_ negotiator--if anyone can find a peaceful solution to this, it is her.”

“This is no longer a matter of diplomacy,” Leliana says matter-of-factly. Her eyes are cool and far calmer than Asha feels. “Josephine’s contact believes Duke Antoine’s advisor is Venatori. We must eliminate him.”

“I--” Asha begins, and then stops just as abruptly. Her head is spinning; faintly, she realizes that she should have seen this coming. Keeper Deshanna had written about this--the disease in Wycome, the lack of trade coming from the city. Something had clearly been wrong.

Why hadn’t she pressed harder? Why hadn’t she noticed, looked into it?

Her mouth feels dry, and her throat feels as though a stone has lodged itself deeply within. Josephine and Leliana share a look. “Inquisitor?”

“The diplomat,” Asha replies mechanically; that is her answer. She remembers the rules of the Game. Open violence is not a viable solution; a delicate touch is necessary. She glances at Josephine, sees Leliana pursing her lips in disapproval out of the corner of her eye.

“I will send word to her at once,” Josephine says.

They are halfway down the landing before Asha’s heart seizes in her chest; she lets out a gasp like a drowning woman breaking the water’s surface. Leliana freezes at the sound, turning and watching as Asha lets the letter from Lady Guinevere flutter to the ground. “Wait!” she cries, nearly losing her footing as she descends the steps. Her hands are shaking violently.

This is not a game, she realizes, the fog she’s set over herself in the past few weeks abruptly dissipating. This is not a game--this is not The Game. The Venatori won’t be cowed by carefully crafted words and diplomacy; Wycome is not Orlais, and the pieces are slowly falling into place in her mind.

Mercenaries had attacked her clan while human nobles and soldiers in Wycome slowly began to sicken. Duke Antoine had done nothing--and now, he has a Tevinter advisor. The elves in Wycome’s alienage are unaffected. Scapegoats--elves are always scapegoats. Halamshiral’s alienage is still ashes.

 _‘Tevinter,’_ Asha thinks, her breath quickening; Leliana takes a step towards her, and Josephine’s brow furrows in concern. _‘Venatori. Sickness.’_

She glances down at her shaking hands. A flash of memory and then realization links together in her mind. She begins to hear a high, thin warbling that isn’t really there. It’s not there.

It’s in Wycome.

“Eliminate the advisor,” Asha gasps, just as Leliana reaches her and lays a hand against her elbow; Asha flinches away. “Do it.”

“Inquisitor--”

“I’m certain!” she snaps, turning and making for the stairs; her foot slips on the bottom step, and her shoulder hits the wall hard. She grunts, chokes out a half-desperate, “Just go.”

“Are you--”

 _“Get out!”_ she screams, and a blast of heat pulses through the air; Asha’s breath catches in her throat as she claws at the chain around her neck. Her fingers wrap around the locket, holding fast. She doesn’t want to turn around, doesn’t want to see the looks on their faces, doesn’t want to hear them reminding her for the millionth time that if she feels, she loses. She _knows_.

But the reminder never comes. The door to the landing closes quietly behind her, the latch clicking into place. There’s a vice grip on her lungs, squeezing the breath out of her in high, ragged gasps as she runs up the stairs, to the glass doors to her balcony that she flings open.

The bitter wind cuts into her face, but even that isn’t enough. Asha tries to suck in lungfuls of crisp air, tries to shock herself back into tranquility, tries to wrap frost around her fingers and chill the uncontrollable bursts of fear and anger into silence. Still waters. Something, anything calm. Steady, solid, immovable.

But the panic doesn’t recede. _‘Venatori, Wycome, red lyrium, my clan,’_ echoes in her head over and over. When she closes her eyes, she sees red. Underneath the sound of her unsteady breaths, underneath the heavy and rapid beat of her heart, she hears the song.

Asha presses her fists to her eyes and bursts into tears, sinking to the ground with her back against Skyhold’s stone walls. The lessons that Vivienne and Leliana have drilled into her skull batter her in between each worry. Asha can’t tell if she hears their voices or her own, a garbled mess; everything's a mess. _‘Your face. Your emotions. Your weaknesses. Breathe, just breathe.’_

She can’t breathe. She can’t scream. She can’t calm down. Her lungs are burning, the wind whips against her and the panic spirals out in sporadic blasts of heat. The Anchor sizzles, and Asha slams that hand against the stone and lets it scrape as she clings to the locket around her neck with the other.

That’s how Cullen finds her later, curled up and having left a palm-sized scorch mark on the wall behind her.

Asha doesn’t know how long it’s been, she doesn’t know when she stopped crying or when she started being able to breathe. She doesn’t know when she tucked her knees against her body and buried her head in the bend of her arms. But she knows his touch, the size of his hands and how gentle they are when they encircle her wrists.

Asha has to squint against the light when she slowly looks up at him, but when his forlorn expression comes into clear view, she wishes she’d kept her head down. “I’m sorry,” she says, the words hollow. It felt like only moments ago that she’d been too full, overflowing with… everything. And yet now, she feels completely empty. A shell.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. His voice is soft, but not uncertain. He sounds like he means it when he adds, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Asha squeezes her eyes shut, feeling them ache dully in response. She’d cried hard, she realizes. “Who told you?” she asks.

“Josephine,” Cullen says, and then his voice darkens when he continues, “I _told_ her that they were pushing you too far.”

“You think everything about Orlesians and their politics goes too far.”

“Am I wrong?” he snaps--and then he makes a soft, wounded noise when she flinches. “I’m sorry. I just… I know it’s not my place, but I can’t be alright with it. Not when it leaves you like this.”

Asha frowns despite the sweetness of his words. They don’t help. “I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t,” Cullen says, his thumbs brushing over the skin of her wrists. He hesitates for only a moment. “But I know what it looks like when you don’t.”

Asha has no argument against that. She has no energy to snap at him, to point out the irony of his observation when she’d once spent _weeks_ watching him let his withdrawals consume him because he’d thought he deserved the worst of the suffering. This isn’t the same. This is the necessity of her position--she has spent months being pulled in many directions at once. She will spend months after this doing the same, for as long as it takes to defeat Corypheus.

But perhaps it’s different being spread so thin when family can get caught in the crossfire of one wrong decision. And then Asha’s expression crumples as she thinks of it all over again. “I’m not going to know,” she whispers brokenly. “About Wycome--I’m not going to know before Halamshiral. I’ve got to do everything, all of that… not knowing if I made the right choice.”

That’s the source of her panic. The unknown. Uncertainty over whether she’s failed them again.

“Will you tell your clan?” Cullen asks. “Perhaps they could move.”

Asha’s next breath is shuddering and small as she shakes her head. “The most I could do is send a warning, but they can’t do anything. A Dalish clan abruptly packing up and moving would draw attention anyway. But Duke Antoine’s… advisor…” She makes a disgusted noise, hands balling into fists. “He must know. If he’s Venatori, he knows they’re my clan. If they try to move… They can't take that risk.” She shakes her head. "There's nothing I can do but wait."

They remain in silence for a long while, afterwards. Asha glances up, finds him watching her, the wind making his cheeks go ruddy. The faintest flicker of affection passes through her chest, just for a moment. But nothing, not even how much she cares for him or how relieved she is to have him with her--to not be alone--can surpass the weariness. Her gaze is flat; the world looks washed out, like it always does when her doubts hit her hard.

Asha wants to apologize again, for putting that look on Cullen’s face. The quiet dejectedness. The worry that he can’t do anything to help her. She knows that feeling, hates it. But even just closing her eyes once more and resting her forehead against his hands saps what little energy she has left.

If he were any other subordinate--anyone not of her inner circle--Asha would put on a brave face. She wouldn’t buckle under the weight of the world, not in front of him. But he knows her. And she is, perhaps, selfish. Selfish enough to let that be an excuse for why she hasn’t pieced herself back together just yet.

Guilt crawls into her throat and settles heavily in the pit of her stomach. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

Cullen’s only response is to lift her head and lay a hand against the curve of her cheek. He watches her wide eyes as they redden and grow wet. A lone tear slips out from underneath her lashes when she looks down, a faint sniff breaking the silence.

Eventually, he pulls her to her feet and brings her in from the cold. There’s a tea tray set on the end table beside her chaise. A soft, floral scent--it's from their worried ambassador, she realizes--wafts from the pot as Cullen sits her down beside it.

“I have things to do,” Asha murmurs. As far as protests go, it’s fairly weak. Cullen fixes her with a stern look he usually reserves for errant recruits.

“Not today,” he says. At her dubious expression, he adds, “You didn’t see Josephine’s face when she came bursting into my office. Your schedule is clear; I’m sure of it.”

Asha sinks her teeth into her lower lip, trying and failing to bite back the swell of guilt in her. She tries another tactic. “ _You_ have things to do.”

“And I can do them right here,” Cullen replies without missing a beat. It’s when he turns towards her desk that she notices a stack of papers and scrolls upon the surface that hadn’t been there before. He’d come prepared.

“You’re not even going to ask before you take over my workspace?” she whispers. The shadow of amusement in her voice has his shoulders relaxing, and only then does she realize just how rigid he’s been from worry.

“Quite frankly, I didn’t think I needed to,” he says, seating himself behind the desk. His gaze is intense. “I’m not going to leave you alone.”

The words sound very close to a promise. Just as much a vow as it is reassurance, and it almost makes Asha smile. “Alright,” she says, because he’s caught her off guard with the strength of his care. Even with a token of his affection hanging around her neck, each demonstration still surprises her a bit.

But then, she’s always known him as the sort of man who shows concern for others. He’s the sort of man who supports the weight of limping soldiers off the field, who protects them, who gives himself wholly to a cause for the sake of doing right no matter what it costs him. Golden-hearted to a fault. That is his nature, no matter who or what has tried to change that.

“I feel like I don’t deserve this,” Asha confesses. She’s speaking, of course, about his unwavering devotion--but the more vulnerable pieces of her think of her life as a whole. It always circles back to this thought, no matter how long she goes in between thinking of it. No matter how much she accomplishes, how many people count on her, how many lives she’s saved.

It’s easier, right now, to believe that none of the good in her life should have been meant for her.

But Cullen’s tone brooks no argument when he says, firmly, “You do.”

There’s nothing else he can say; he knows what this feels like. He understands all too well the way that self-hatred picks away at everything else, until there isn’t anything left to focus on but that. Leliana might like to joke about how he always punishes himself, but Asha’s own brand of self-inflicted blame and doubt must cut just as deeply.

Perhaps worse, because she’s better at hiding it than he is. She tucks those feelings away--more so now than ever before, with Leliana and Vivienne teaching her how to master the Game--until they reach a boiling point and overwhelm her. Until he finds her curled into herself on the balcony, smaller than she’s ever looked before, with puffy eyes and dried tear tracks trailing down her face.

Cullen’s simple words provide Asha with more comfort than anything else would have, though. Platitudes are easy to write off as excuses. But he’s spoken with nothing but conviction, and she almost believes him. Maybe in a few hours, she will.

“Thank you,” she breathes, wishing she could say more--feel more. But the look on his face tells her that what she has to give is more than enough. She wraps her fingers around the locket and breathes deeply.

Asha closes her eyes, slowly finding solace in the weight of the silver in her hand.

 

XXX

 

Cullen isn’t used to the smallness of Asha’s desk compared to his own, so when he nudges a pile of papers too far to the right, he knocks a leather-bound book to the ground with a heavy thump. He winces, an apology halfway to his lips when he glances to the chaise and sees that she is still asleep.

She’d dropped off somewhere in between responses to Lieutenant Cloche-Sec's report from Val Gamord, and Rylen's continued complaining from the Western Approach. The sight had been a relief; the heaviness of her expression from before--equal measures of guilt and sorrow--had ached to look at. She remains on the chaise only because he fears disturbing her much needed rest if he tries to move her to the bed.

And if he’s being completely honest with himself, the thought of the intimacy of tucking her in makes his face flame, as absurd as he feels for it. So Cullen leaves her where she is and remains at her desk, leaning down to pick up the fallen book and the papers that had scattered when it had burst open.

He blinks when he’s got them gathered in his hands, seeing them clearly. Recognizing the handwriting.

 _Explain the dragon_.

His heart stutters in his chest. It’s the shortest--and probably angriest--letter he’d written to her, and she’d kept it. He hesitates for a moment before lifting the paper and glancing at the one underneath it.

_If you shared all of your burdens with me, I would consider myself a most lucky man._

Cullen’s breath catches, and he looks up once again to make sure that Asha is still asleep. Reason tells him that he’s being silly, that she wouldn’t care, but part of him still feels like he’s going through something he shouldn’t be--except it’s not _really_ a secret that he’d discovered because--

These are his letters. All the letters he’s ever written her, he realizes, when he flips through them and finds the very first. From many months ago. From Haven, when it seemed like she wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from him.

Ink splotches, lines crossed through fumbling words on the page--she’d kept all of them. Every single one.

 

XXX

 

_Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan,_

_There is no easy way to inform you of this, but a contact of the Inquisition’s ambassador has warned us of a Venatori presence in Wycome. An advisor of Duke Anotine’s, to be specific--though we are not yet certain just how deep the corruption runs, so to speak. It is only an assumption, but the plague that has swept through the city as of late may well be red lyrium sickness. Whether that is the case, and whether Duke Antoine is complicit in this, remains to be seen._

_Asha is wary of sending word to you; she says that even with a warning, there is nothing to be done. If the Venatori really do have control over Wycome, they will notice if the clan attempts to move. I can’t say that I disagree with that. But I know Asha, and her uncertainty over whether or not you are alright will eat her alive. Your safety is her greatest concern, and if the situation deteriorates, it might bring her some peace to know that the clan is prepared for that possibility._

_Stay away from Wycome for now. Guard yourselves carefully. And don’t hesitate to send word for aid. We have forces stationed in Ansburg. You might remember them; it is the same unit that stood with you against the attacking mercenaries. Lieutenant Chambreterre and her men will not hesitate to protect the clan once again, should you need it._

_For all your sakes, I hope it will not come to that. Asha is doing all that she can to keep you safe. You have my word that the Inquisition as a whole will do the same._

_\-- Commander Cullen Rutherford_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: uh, a bath. 
> 
> I fly home in a week for my little sister's quince; I'm not sure I'll be able to update before then? My schedule is pretty packed, but I'll be more free afterwards.


	25. Bare Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I remember the way you used to look at me, back at the beginning. In Haven. But you still looked at me.” She gives him a wry little smile and mutters, “I just walked away from you at every chance I got.”
> 
> Cullen snorts. “I don’t blame you.”
> 
> “So why do you blame yourself?” Asha asks, and all the mirth fades from his expression. He tries to withdraw from her, but she keeps his hands where they are. “It’s alright, Cullen,” she whispers, and his breath hitches in his throat. “If you keep thinking that you’re inadequate, unworthy, or whatever it is you’re going to call yourself next, then I will simply have to keep telling you that you’re wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was 90% sure that I was gonna get to Halamshiral this chapter. WAS WRONG.
> 
> Okay so I rewrote this about 5 million times and hated it every single time except for this final draft, which I don't hate, so uh, progress. Literally though I'm a nervous wreck about it lmao, this chapter is SO. Meaningful. Anyways. I'll edit later because if I reread this one more time I'm literally gonna delete it, lol.
> 
> A little context: I've seen it headcanoned one way and headcanoned another but for this particular story, Cullen and Asha are both virgins. No, they are not tender-hearted innocents who get the vapors at the thought of sex. They're just two adults who've never had sex. It's been established that Asha's never shown any desire to have a relationship or intimacy with anyone until now, and I really don't reasonably see Cullen (in this story), with his PTSD from the torture and sexual assault, as being inclined at any point before this relationship to desire sex. I really try to keep this relationship as grounded in reality as possible. For me, the reality I'm portraying is that this is a mature relationship between two adults with issues who try to navigate them as healthily as possible. And to get from point A to point D (desk, lol), there's quite a bit to fill in.
> 
> Okay, I'm done rambling. And panicking. God, I need to post this before I rewrite it AGAIN okay.

_"Lay me low,_   
_where no one can see me,_   
_where no one can find me,_   
_where no one can hurt me."_   
**\-- 'Lay Me Low' by The Albion Band**

* * *

 

She is awake when Cullen returns from the rookery--a trip that had taken far longer than intended because he’d predictably gotten distracted by the sight of the newest batch of raw recruits running combat drills in the training yard. And then he’d been caught in the main hall by a runner delivering a letter from Mia, which had brought him a fresh wave of concerns to deal with.

He’d been so preoccupied with how he might respond to whatever she’d written--he always needs to _think_ when he writes to his family, to tamp down the anxiety knotting in his gut--that he’d failed to knock on the door to Asha’s quarters; Cullen realizes only when he catches sight of her kneeling, still-clothed, beside a full, steaming copper tub that perhaps he really should have.

Asha gives him a small smile when he freezes in place and turns scarlet. “Hello,” she murmurs, voice still rough from sleep. The color high on his cheeks deepens, and her own heart stutters on its rapid rhythm. “I thought you’d left.”

“N-no, I…” he stammers, glancing between the door and the ground. Even his ears are burning, and he cycles through a list of potential responses that include, _‘I didn’t think I was gone that long,’_ and, _‘I’m sorry_ ,’ even though he hasn’t actually walked in on anything. 

Even though it probably wouldn’t matter to her if he had.

Cullen settles on a slightly strangled, “I can go.”

Asha’s gaze keeps him pinned in place, though. Sharp and knowing. “You don’t have to,” she says, voice still gentle. She isn’t concerned about propriety; they’ve been in intimate positions before, and this, she thinks, isn’t for the sake of leading to _that_. She hopes her tone conveys that, but she won’t be hurt if he still chooses to go.

After all, she’s relatively certain the Chantry says nothing on casual nudity, save for the fact that it likely isn’t encouraged. Ever.

Cullen’s throat works, bobbing in an audible swallow. For a long moment, he’s torn--not because he doesn’t like the idea, not because he doesn’t find her desirable, but because an unwanted memory flashes through his mind. An unnaturally perfect body with dusky skin and a seductive voice underlaid with something darker. For one terrifying breath, the room seems far colder, and the lush fragrance of perfumed bathwater is replaced with a thick, cloying scent. It’s wrong.

He flinches when he meets her gaze again, like he used to when they’d first met. Asha’s stomach drops, and she regrets asking, an apology already forming--but then, he surprises her.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks, though he’s already been given the answer.

But he needs to ask. He needs to be certain. He needs reassurance, something to wipe away whatever puts shadows in his eyes. Something new to lay over that. And it makes Asha feel warm, the feeling full and heavy in her heart, that he wants to stay enough to ask the question.

Cullen sighs, a bit unsteady, Mia’s letter crinkling in his hands. The room smells like Asha again, familiar and sweet. Her skin is brown, hair half-shaved and braided, tucked behind long, slender ears. Dark, intricate branches are inked on her face. She can’t be confused for anyone or anything else; she’s nothing like anyone else he’s ever known.

He wants her, and she’s not going to use those wants against him. She reinforces that belief when she answers, “I would be glad if you stayed, and I would understand if you left. It’s your choice.” She shrugs a shoulder and adds lightly, “I just want to sit in the water and not think about how foolish I was this morning. And I like your company.”

The beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of Cullen’s lips, the taut lines of his shoulders relaxing a bit. “You weren’t foolish,” he says softly.

Asha rolls her eyes, trailing the tips of her fingers through the water. “We’ll agree to disagree on that.” Cullen finally moves from the stairs, making his way to her desk; she notices the half-crumpled letter in his hands then, seeing an opportunity to change the subject. “Is that from your sister?”

“It is,” he says absentmindedly, his thoughts more on her. On the realization that he’s made his choice to stay, and she’s rising to her feet, hands moving to unwrap the scarf wound around her neck. His breath hitches as he fixates on the motion, and Asha’s ears flutter at the sound.

She turns, glancing at him from over her shoulder. “Are you sure you want to stay?” she asks, and not because she needs the reassurance. It doesn’t bother her, but he looks like a man who is almost apprehensive about the idea of her undressing in front of him. She doesn’t know whether that’s a result of Chantry teachings or something else.

She bets on something else.

Cullen considers the question, smoothing the unopened letter out on her desk. “I am,” he says, and he means it. But he doesn’t know how to tell her that whatever reluctance she finds in him has nothing to do with her and everything to do with him. That he’s as hungry for intimacy as he is wary of it, because he’s never really known it. A puppyish infatuation with a Circle mage from his youth doesn’t count--not when he’d been so ashamed of it that it had never blossomed into more.

A desire demon doesn’t count either, he thinks, skin crawling. That’s what he tells himself--that’s what he knows Asha would tell him. But after a morning of her falling apart underneath all her burdens, he doesn’t want to put his own on her shoulders. Not now. It wouldn’t be fair to her.

She looks unconvinced, though. So he reminds her, “I’m not very good at this.”

“It’s not about being good,” Asha says softly. Her movements slow, more for the sake of putting his mind at ease than about seduction. The scarf flutters away from her throat, wrapped in her hands before she sets it down. “It’s about what you want. Or what you don’t want.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Cullen says, the words far easier to say than anything centered around his desires, his love.

“I’m alright,” Asha says, turning away slightly. He watches the motion of her arms as they rise; fabric rustles as she begins to slowly unbutton her tunic. “You being here helped a great deal.”

Cullen’s gaze drops to the letter in his hands; he focuses on breaking the wax seal instead of gawking at her. “I’m glad,” he says hoarsely, trying to pay attention to the words laid before him. He hesitates, briefly. “Are you really alright?”

Her movements abruptly stop. Silence stretches between them before she answers, “For now, I am. There is… nothing more that can be done about Wycome. I’m certain neither Leliana nor Vivienne are allowed to approach me about anything related to Orlais for today, at least. And I… I need to focus on leading more than what could happen if I fail. No matter how frightened I am.”

“Do not doubt yourself,” Cullen says, absolutely aware of the irony in giving advice that he rarely takes. He hears her shift and imagines that she’s giving him a pointed look; the thought almost makes him smile. If Asha feels like teasing him, then she really is feeling a bit better. Still, he is solemn when he says, “If there’s anything I can do… You have only to ask.”

“I know,” Asha says, and he hears the smile in her voice. She turns back to undressing, adding, “And I could say the same for you.”

“I know,” he echoes--and he does, though he still finds himself struck with disbelief at times that a woman like her wants anything to do with a man like him, much less that she cares so much.

He manages to focus on Mia’s letter just long enough to get past ‘ _Dear Cullen,’_ before the sound of Asha’s tunic hitting the floor steals his attention yet again. His eyes land first on the pile of fabric, and then they trail slowly up--over the length of her legs, still clothed, and then--

Bare skin. He’s holding his breath, he realizes, not sure if he’s waiting for something. His own reaction, maybe, whether it’s fear or something that he prays for--something normal. His gut tightens. It’s not repulsion, it’s not the instinct to shut down and lock away the thought of what a woman’s naked body looks like from shame. 

It’s been a few years since that.

Cullen has seen women without their clothes on before. Granted, his frame of reference is pathetic--or at least he thinks so. The workers at the Blooming Rose in Kirkwall had sat, exposed, on the laps of patrons, none of them wanting anything to do with him, and him never going the way of his brothers in arms who liked to frequent the establishment for pleasure. Nothing about it had seemed pleasurable at the time.

He’d still been stuck on the memories that woke him so violently from sleep with no desire for doing anything other than ripping off his skin and vomiting. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with women--not like that. And after the nightmares had begun to come less frequently, he still hadn't wanted anyone. It hadn't been possible, not with everything that had been going on in Kirkwall.

Things are different now. Cullen knows that, underneath the fear of wondering if he really has changed.

Perhaps this is his normalcy. As close as he’ll get, in any case. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of Asha--hadn’t taken himself in hand before and fantasized about the shape or feel of her. He knows what it’s like to need her, to want her. He knows what she sounds like when she moans. He knows what she tastes like. He knows that what he’s feeling right now, heart pounding, is a prelude to what he feels like during those moments. Tight like a drum, skin prickling and body hot.

It still isn’t comparable, though. This moment is wholly unique. New. And most importantly, real. Cullen’s gaze lingers over the length of her back, mostly unblemished save for the edge of a ropey scar that peeks around the curve of her hip. Asha rolls her shoulders, and he watches the muscles bunch with the motion.

His breath rushes out of him; the evidence of her strength, always hidden underneath her robes or leather and furs, is beautiful.

Asha turns at the sound--and Cullen feels his blood surge, cock throbbing at the swell of her breasts, at the sight of her dark nipples tightening when she looks at him. His mouth goes dry as he snaps his gaze to her face.

But the skin around her eyes tightens at the same time, pained; she brings her hand up, covering the flash of the silver locket dangling between her breasts. And then Cullen’s breath catches on realization, and she gives him a rueful smile. It’s not the locket she’s trying to hide.

The scar is a little too big to cover. And it’s not beautiful; he has scars that are just as ugly. That he would cover too, if he could. This one is shiny skin and jagged edges, still raw-looking. It is the kind of scar that will never vanish, though Cullen doesn’t know if that’s a result from the red lyrium or not.

It’s not really a question to wonder about; he is just grateful that she’d fought so hard. That she’d been lucky enough that what should have killed her, hadn’t. “You don’t have to hide it,” he says, again with a hint of irony. He’s kept his scars as best-hidden as he can and has done for years.

But Cullen doesn’t feel as much of the urgency to do it around Asha. He wants her to feel the same around him.

It’s not easy. Asha’s body is so marked--old puncture wounds and a slice from a blade on her shoulder, two more across her muscled abdomen and her hip. What looks like a burn scar under the right side of her ribs. Even on her face--the familiar, long scar that trails from the lobe of one ear down the length of her jaw, the one that bisects her brow, and another that splits her bottom lip.

Too much destruction to cover, even if Asha wants to. Cullen understands how that feels.

Cullen thinks she is beautiful. Asha has never cared about whether she is beautiful or not--but her reluctance to reveal the scar from her red lyrium wound is about more than beauty or a lack thereof. It’s about more than wanting him to find her desirable.

It’s that Cullen has blamed himself for its existence before. It’s that sometimes, she dreams of the pain and the moment he’d fallen to his knees before her in the snow--the horrified look he’d worn. And when he looks at her body, she doesn’t want to see guilt in his eyes. But she can’t tell him how to feel. She can only warn, “It’s not pretty.” And the her hand falls away.

She’s right. But he says, “I have scars that I would say the same about.”

Asha believes him, but she still reflexively murmurs, “Do you?”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and they are both rather surprised when Cullen rises and begins to pluck off his gloves. But even though he’s made an impulsive decision, and he’ll stick to it. Impulse has paid off before, with her.

Asha’s brows climb high as she watches him deposit them on the edge of her desk before his hands move to the buckles of his armor. “Vhenan?” she whispers.

He doesn’t answer her, though he holds her gaze with a single-minded intensity that suits him as a soldier. He divests himself of his gear like one--steady, perfunctory motions that bare him piece by piece before her. Until he’s vulnerable from the waist-up, in only a thin tunic that he lifts by the hem.

Asha is barely aware of the fact that this is the first time she’s seeing his body; she doesn’t even have a second to take in the hard lines of muscle that would ordinarily send a thrill through her. What catches her attention--what he’s trying to show her with an uncharacteristically blank expression on his face--are the scars.

Five jagged gashes down the cut of his hips on both sides. Claws that had dragged deep, their marks disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

Asha understands. A sharp pain spears her heart, her brow furrowing. Suddenly, the bareness of her own body and its many imperfections matters less. Doesn’t matter at all, actually.

She takes small, careful steps towards him. “May I?” she asks, gesturing to the scars. Cullen hesitates, and she stills, waiting.

Slowly, he holds his hand out. Wordlessly asking to control this; Asha grants the request easily, laying her hand palm-up in his own. Limp. She thinks of the night she’d returned from the Emerald Graves, the way he’d let her tug his arm this way and that as she’d studied him. There are many moments when he’d trusted her enough to let her touch him without fear, and she doesn’t begrudge him this one when he can’t.

She remembers him crying when she’d said nothing would happen between them that he didn’t want. Now, it makes sense. Her heart aches for him.

Cullen’s fingers tremble right before they tighten around hers, bringing her close enough that he can gently lay the pads of her fingers against his ruined skin. The muscles in his abdomen quiver, a sharp breath sticking in his throat.

It’s a long while before he finally lets go of her hand, though he’s positioned to push her away if he needs to. His voice is rough when he says, “Don’t… Don’t move too quickly. Please.”

He doesn’t need to warn her to be gentle. He knows she will be. But he tucks his chin low, watching her hand like a hawk anyway.

Asha nods, breathing deeply. So slowly that the seconds stretch into minutes, silence blanketing them, she splays her hand against his hip and keeps it there. A feather-light touch, warm and soft.

She is so much smaller than he is, but even bigger and stronger in Templar armor back then, he hadn’t been safe. And Cullen has to fight with this moment, warring against old memories that turn into nightmares he tries to banish often. Asha watches him carefully, seeing the strain at the edges of his eyes as he looks down at her.

“Odhea, vhenan,” she whispers--and some of his tension recedes. “Breathe.”

Asha feels the breath more than she hears it. His pulse jumps in his throat as he looks at her, unblinking. After a while, she watches him release the hem of his tunic and settle his hands against the curve of her hips; calloused and warm, the touch makes her shiver. His next breath comes easier.

But when Cullen’s hands slowly move to the laces of her trousers, she stiffens--and he flinches, stammering an apology.

Asha blinks owlishly up at him, her fingers still splayed against his hips. Her thumbs brush against the ridges of scar tissue. “It’s… alright,” she says. “I just didn’t think that you’d--”

“I didn’t--” Cullen starts, unable to meet her gaze. That familiar pucker forms in the skin between his brows as he furrows them, mouth twisting in frustration. “I was--I thought… You just wanted to relax, and I--”

“Stop it,” Asha snaps when she hears him getting ready to chastise himself, and the familiar tone of command in her voice--the strength and certainty that he loves and envies--has him falling silent. The bright ferocity that had flashed in her eyes fades, replaced by tenderness as she shakes her head. “You know,” she begins. “I’ve never done this before. Any of it.”

The only thing that keeps Cullen’s jaw from dropping in shock is that he feels too much of it to move. “You haven’t,” he repeats dumbly, and Asha’s brows quirk up.

“I haven’t,” she says, faintly amused. But her mouth presses into a solemn line as she finally draws her hands back, away from the more vulnerable parts of him, and she lays them atop his own. “Is that surprising?”

He hesitates before he answers, “Yes.”

Asha smiles, taking note of the way he relaxes in relief at the sight of it. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Cullen says immediately. He lets out a soft huff and admits, “If anything, it… I feel a little less… inadequate.”

“There’s nothing inadequate about you,” she says, snorting when he rolls his eyes. “Stop it,” she says again, no heat behind the words. “I mean it.”

But as sweet as the reassurance is, Cullen still forces himself to reply, “Some nights, I wake up screaming. Or… crying. And on bad days, it’s hard to look you in the eyes because I see the color, and a part of me thinks of… of…”

Asha’s heart squeezes painfully tight in the silence that follows. She squeezes Cullen’s hands just as hard. She knows what a desire demon’s true body looks like. But having the truth of what he’s been through confirmed in such stark terms still makes her hurt--not for herself, but for him.

Every flinch he’s ever made away from her makes all the sense in the world.

She murmurs, “That just makes you less inadequate than ever.” She reaches up and gently lays a hand against the slope of his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against her fingertips. “I remember the way you used to look at me, back at the beginning. In Haven. But you still _looked_ at me.” She gives him a wry little smile and mutters, “I just walked away from you at every chance I got.”

Cullen snorts. “I don’t blame you.”

“So why do you blame yourself?” Asha asks, and all the mirth fades from his expression. He tries to withdraw from her, but she keeps his hands where they are. “It’s alright, Cullen,” she whispers, and his breath hitches in his throat. “If you keep thinking that you’re inadequate, unworthy, or whatever it is you’re going to call yourself next, then I will simply have to keep telling you that you’re wrong.”

“You’d think we’d have enough of that in the war room,” he remarks.

Asha grins, eyes sparkling with laughter. “Oh, you’re _funny_ ,” she drawls, watching him fight back a smile. She lets out something suspiciously close to a squeak when he draws her towards him and teasingly pinches her side. Cullen actually smiles then--bright and unreserved, and more when she laughs breathlessly.

And then the moment shifts, changes into something quiet when she wraps her arms around his waist. His thumbs brush against the line where her trousers meet her hips, running over soft skin and supple leather.

“Sometimes this is so easy,” he muses. “And sometimes, it isn’t.”

Asha hums thoughtfully. “I know what you mean,” she murmurs. Thoughts of leadership cross her mind--the days where everything flows so effortlessly, where every decision she makes feels like the _right_ one and the weight of all the lives resting upon her shoulders feels like responsibility, and not a burden breaking her back.

And then, the days like today. Where everything and nearly everyone is too much. When she can’t stop questioning herself long enough to function, where she can’t rein herself in fast enough and shame curls in her gut at her own lack of control.

But she isn’t alone right now. She’d grown used to being alone--for a long time, she’d thought solitude was all that she’d deserved. And she’d believed that asking people for more things to do--other responsibilities that she could pay attention to so that she didn’t have to pay attention to herself--was the best way to cope. The only way she should be allowed to cope.

Atonement.

 _‘What a pair we are,’_ Asha thinks, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. Sometimes, it seems near-miraculous that two people like themselves had ever managed to find each other, especially now. And other times, it seems like it has always been inevitable. Like it makes all the sense in the world that two people who understand the insidious sort of pain that is self-hatred would start learning, with each other, that they’re allowed to want more.

“Bath?” Asha offers quietly after a long while. Comfort. And when Cullen doesn’t stiffen or move to pull away, she presses her cheek to his chest and adds, “I won’t look if you don’t want me to. And you can say no.”

“I know,” he says, sounding a bit strangled--and she realizes with a smirk that he’s only just seemed to remember that she’s half naked. She swallows a laugh and runs a soothing hand halfway up the length of his spine.

Everything--all of Cullen’s senses--is so full of her that there’s hardly room for anything else. Not even apprehension, because it crumbles to bits like the weak thing it is in the face of her acceptance.

When his hands find the laces of her trousers once more, Asha remains perfectly still as he undoes them. It’s not the quick, perfunctory motions he’d removed his armor with. It’s slow, and a little fumbling at times. But she’s happy, letting him move at his own pace and taking in the sensation of being undressed by her lover for the first time.

He freezes when he starts to push the fabric down over her hips and feels nothing but smooth, brown skin underneath. “You’re not… wearing--”

“I rarely do,” Asha replies nonchalantly, seemingly unaware of the reaction he’s having to finding no smallclothes on her. “I have plenty, but Josephine and Vivienne picked them out, so they’re all frilly and impractical.” She glances up at Cullen through dark lashes, a wicked grin on her face when she sees that he looks like he might burst into flames. “At least if Leliana ever pins my smalls up in the courtyard, I’d have deniability.”

“Ah,” Cullen croaks, entirely too much blood divided between being supplied to his face and his cock to have any left for his brain and coherent thought. This is, admittedly, a fact he could do without--if only because he’s not certain he can handle the idea of watching her walk through the courtyard or perching on the edge of his desk and wondering if she’s wearing any smalls that day.

And yet, he latches onto the revelation like a lifeline. The idea that there are still so many things that he doesn’t know about her, so many intimacies that he has yet to find out, is comforting. Grounding. Keeps him from confusing things. And each one that he does have is like a treasure, like a coin in his pocket to worry at when he needs it.

Asha is gentle and kind. She can also cut a man to pieces with nothing more than a sharp word or glance--he knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of both. She stands with squared shoulders and the grace of a noblewoman. She can also curl into a ball so small that she might disappear entirely, when she wants to. She wears her heart on her sleeve, but he’s so deliberately obtuse about it because it’s hard to believe that a woman like her wants a man like him.

It’s hard, sometimes, to believe that this isn’t an illusion. A cruel trick.

But she’s patient. She waits, watching him with her knowing gaze--clear and observant, checking him for any signs of discomfort or hesitation as he quietly slides the rest of her clothing off.

It’s not a dark, lust-drugged look. Not the one that haunts him, not the one that tortured him.

And her voice isn’t an unholy mix of sinister sexuality when she speaks. It’s soothing when she touches the hem of his tunic and asks, “Alright?”

Cullen covers her hand with his own, squeezing once as he nods. His heart is pounding, he realizes. From anticipation, not fear. “I can do it,” he murmurs, bending to press a kiss to her brow.

The air around them warms, and before he can tell her that he doesn’t mind, Asha smiles at him and quickly withdraws, whispering, “Alright.”

He is half distracted as he undresses, watching as she carefully removes the silver locket at her throat and lays it upon the scarf she’d warn. He stares--blatantly--at her backside when she steps into the oversized tub and sinks down with a sigh and the sound of rippling water. And then he says, quietly, “You can look.”

Asha doesn’t turn around just yet. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“ _Really_ sure?”

“Are you trying to get me to admit that I want you to watch me undress?”

Of course she turns and settles against the opposite side of the tub then, eyes glittering. “You know me well,” she jokes, and he snorts, smiling in spite of the nerves that start to creep in on him now that she’s actually watching.

“I like to think I do,” he says.

“You do,” she croons.

Cullen’s body is, surprisingly, less marked than hers--but marked all the same. Most of the scars are what look like old sword cuts, faded against even his pale skin. The worst looking ones are a patch of too-tight skin high on his bicep--a burn scar--and the ones from Kinloch.

From the demon. Asha can see it all now, once he’s just as naked as she is. She draws her knees up to her chest and stares, taking in the lines left behind by claws that had dragged over his hips and down, ending nearly at the junction of his thighs where his cock hangs heavy. She forces herself not to look like she is aching for him, because he’s watching her just as closely as he approaches the tub.

Asha has a vision of ripping the desire demon’s head from its body with her bare hands, but that thing is over a decade dead. The thought still makes her feel better for a moment--until he gingerly steps into the bath with her, and then she’s not thinking about anything or anyone but him.

Cullen jolts when she turns around again and settles back against him, sending water sloshing over the edges. He stammers an apology just as she draws in a sharp breath, and the warmth of her skin vanishes, leaving him bereft.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I should’ve asked--”

“It’s--” he starts, reaching for her but not quite able to manage putting his hands on her. “It’s fine, I… It felt nice, I just wasn’t expecting it.” But she doesn’t move, she waits, and he realizes that she’s leaving control of the situation in his hands.

Cullen tells himself it’s the steam from the bath that makes him feel light-headed, and not the feel of Asha’s body robbing him of all sense when he settles his hands on her hips and slides her back against him. He hardens immediately, embarrassingly, against the blissfully soft curve of her arse. His breath comes shakily, and she can feel his chest rapidly rising and falling against her back.

Asha tilts her head back, staring up at him with a faint smile playing about the corners of her lips. “It’s alright,” she says, reaching down and gently maneuvering him to wrap his arms around her. 

“I know,” he says. And then they fall silent.

It’s the most intimate position they’ve ever been in--arguably the most intimate they could be, short of actually having sex with each other. But there’s no pressure for that--at least, none that Cullen isn’t manufacturing himself. But every time a mocking voice in his head reminds him that he should be capable of being with the woman he dreams and fantasizes about without feeling like he’s going to shake at the idea, the reality of their relationship banishes the thought. The reality of her presence pulls him out of his own head enough that he can enjoy this.

He might never know what it’s like to be his idea of normal.

Asha doesn’t seem to care about normal, though. She just cares about him. And Cullen replays the moment he’d really understood that--the moment on the battlements that she’d told him--over and over. Until his heart rate slows. Until he’s gone soft against her and doesn’t feel like a lesser man, until they’ve been sitting in the bath for so long that they’ve both gone loose-limbed and drowsy.

Until Cullen bends and presses his brow to the crook of her neck, against her dewy skin, certain that nothing in his life has ever been as right as this. As her.

Until he silently mouths, _“I love you.”_

Asha shivers, feeling the puff of breath against her skin. She shifts, the dark tendrils of her hair curling in the water, and sighs happily. “Alright?” she asks, sounding utterly content. The most relaxed she’s felt all day. The events of the early morning feel so far away, now; nothing matters but this.

Cullen smiles, softly pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Yes,” he says, without hesitation. “Very.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god I'm PANICKING okay I really might rewrite this somebody tape my hands together and stop me.
> 
> Up next: finally Halamshiral. Honestly, I swear.


	26. Orlais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha,  
> When I think of Orlais, the last word that comes to mind would be 'fun'.  
> \-- Cullen
> 
> Cullen,  
> I feel exactly the same way--but I think the wine would have helped.  
> \-- Asha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note: I love you guys. The response to the last chapter really reinvigorated my confidence in my writing. Y'all are the best. There's a bit of everything here. Halamshiral will probably span a few chapters--but it'll be decidedly less funny onwards. :<

_"Will they know what you overcame?_   
_Will they know you rewrote the game?_   
_The world will never be the same!"_   
**\-- 'Alexander Hamilton' by Lin-Manuel Miranda**

* * *

 

The days until the inner circle’s departure and the small contingent of troops meant to accompany them to Halamshiral have ticked down until only a week remains, and with time running out, Asha has seen fit to schedule the first of many integrated training sessions between her conscripts and Cullen's recruits at last. And whatever has changed between her and Cullen after that quiet, comforting day in her quarters, it is apparently noticeable enough for several of the cheekier soldiers to give each other knowing looks as the pair of them demonstrate close combat tactics in a mage-Templar fight.

Ideally, Asha would’ve preferred having Fiona and Rylen overseeing the teaching _and_ demonstrations while they merely observed, but the latter remains stationed in the Western Approach, and Fiona does not have as much skill in melee. And in the spirit of sending the strongest possible message about the necessity of unity, it’s likely for the best that the Inquisitor--a Dalish mage--and the commander of the Inquisition--a former Templar whose last station had been Kirkwall, of all places--are the ones good-naturedly facing off in the center of the training grounds while Fiona and Ser Belinda Darrow simply instruct.

Privately, Asha appreciates the opportunity for what it is--a chance for progress, and a distraction from whatever awaits her at the Winter Palace. With sweat on her brow and her muscles pleasantly stinging with the effort of sparring, teaching the mages how to hold their own physically against a Templar and the soldiers how to handle close combat with a mage, it’s nice not to have to focus on anything but parrying blows and delivering her own on cue.

It’s also, she notes with faint amusement, the first time she’s had the privilege of facing Cullen in combat, even if it is nothing more than a mock battle. Ordinarily, she’d be enjoying it entirely, but now--

“If Hyland doesn’t get that stupid grin off his face,” she hisses as she redirects a blow from Cullen’s sword into the dirt; her sensitive ears catch the soldier in question’s snickering. “I’m going to have him take your place and smack it off.”

Cullen doesn’t even bother to try and hide his amused smile as he tugs his blade out of the ground, absently shaking his arm. Even with his armor on, Asha’s blow has left his wrist throbbing. “As your military advisor, I have to ask that you not maim him,” he says, listening to Darrow explain how Asha had used Cullen’s own weight against him to avoid the hit. “He’s one of the more promising recruits from Hasmal.”

Asha laughs low in her throat, quirking a brow at him. “I’m surprised you’re not more bothered by all the attention,” she remarks.

It’s not as if their relationship is a particularly well-kept secret in Skyhold--not that it ever really has been--and even the amount of time they spend together doesn’t raise many eyebrows. But _that_ day had been special; neither of them would deny that, though nothing had happened beyond the bath. And it isn’t as if anyone besides the two of them know the truth of what goes on in her quarters--or, in other instances, his office--when they are alone. Speculation can run rampant, of course, but they’d been carrying on for quite a while, now, and have no intention of stopping.

And yet, something had to have changed; the idea lingers in Asha's mind. Perhaps something that neither she nor Cullen could pinpoint, because their public demeanor remains unchanged. But it’s undoubtedly something that other people can see.

Cullen rolls his eyes and nods at a point somewhere over her shoulder. “If you could see the faces Dorian’s making at me right now, you wouldn’t care about Hyland.”

Asha lets out an exasperated groan, just before Darrow calls for them to repeat their maneuver again. There’s a split second of acknowledgement between her and Cullen as he readies his sword, and she, her staff, before he moves to strike--faster now than he had before, so the observers can see what it would look like in real time. Asha can’t help the slightly feral grin that splits her face as she slides back on one foot, just out of the way enough that she can swing her staff down onto Cullen’s arm, forcing him to follow through with the motion until his sword is buried in the ground once again.

The mirth is replaced by a decidedly withering feeling when Asha glances over her shoulder, past the mages that she can see studying the maneuver and to the random onlookers that have gathered outside of the fence. Dorian is instantly spotted, giving her a lascivious grin and waggling his eyebrows. On either side of him, Sera and Bull are snickering as they watch.

She sighs audibly enough for Cullen to hear it. While the lecture continues, he says quietly, “I think they just like seeing you hit me.”

Asha presses her fingers to her lips, glancing up at him. “That explains Dorian's behavior, obviously--but if that’s the case, do your troops really think laughing at you is a good idea?”

“I can admit that some of them are, in fact, short-sighted enough to not consider what will happen the next time I oversee combat drills,” he says, louder now. The noise from the soldiers' side abruptly cuts off. His eyes glimmer with amusement as he looks down at her--as well as with a touch of admiration that makes her gut flutter. “But seeing you in combat is always impressive. Maker’s breath, you’re strong.”

“Try not to sound _too_ shocked,” Asha deadpans, a wry look on her face. Even so, she blushes faintly from the praise. Cullen smiles, shaking his head.

“You know what I mean. I think I can feel bruises already forming,” he says, chuckling--and even _that_ somehow manages to sound like a compliment.

“Someone’s getting soft sitting up in his office all day,” she teases, eyes sparkling. There's a sharp draw of breath from the troops, and she grins. Cullen’s expression shifts subtly at that, his eyes darkening even as the smile remains on his face, looking a bit more dangerous now.

“Really,” he murmurs, and the low rumble of his voice in her ear makes her shiver with an equal measure of anticipation and apprehension. Her answering laugh comes breathlessly.

The thought that the soldiers are stifling smiles and laughter because the pair of them have been flirting with each other in full view of everyone doesn’t cross either of their minds, somehow.

Cullen pays her back for the comment when his demonstration of a shield bash knocks her flat down--as it should, but she still grunts hard from the impact, wincing. “Alright,” she groans, and it’s as much a declaration of her well-being as it is a concession.

But Cullen looks just a little too smug when he offers his hand to help her up. He tugs her to her feet and says, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Was the ground _soft_ enough for you, my lady?”

Asha can’t tell who’s laughing harder on the sidelines--Bull or Dorian. Over the sound of the mages and soldiers joining in on it, she’s vaguely aware of Sera hollering for her to shove dirt into Cullen’s mouth; she starts grinning in spite of the flash of heat in her eyes at his words. “ _Alright_ ,” she says sharply, releasing his hand and smacking his chest with the head of her staff. It bounces harmlessly off of his breastplate with a clang. “Masa.”

Cullen raises a brow, looking very much the way he does when he wins a game of chess. “Do I want to know what that means?”

“Ass,” Asha snaps, unable to keep the reluctant amusement out of her voice. “I’m going to get you for that.”

Unfortunately, the opportunity doesn’t present itself this training session; they go back and forth between demonstrating an effective parry--which Asha makes sure not to pull any blows during--and a shield bash--which Cullen keeps relatively harmless, apparently satisfied with his victory over her. Once the mages and soldiers have watched enough, they take their turn running through the motions on the field while Asha and Cullen stand off to the side, observing.

It’s only then, standing close enough that she can hear his murmured conversation with Dorian, that Asha thinks she might understand just what it is that people have been seeing more of lately--what’s drawn their amused attention. It’s not anything about their relationship that’s changed dramatically--not really.

It’s Cullen. He’d told her before that, ideally, he prefers their private affairs to remain just that: private. And it’s why they aren’t overly affectionate in public--no _obvious_ touches or kisses--and why she usually comes to him to spend time together. Being that Asha flits all over Skyhold on a regular basis, it’s not strange to see her visiting his quarters or being the one who prompts him into coming to the garden. And on the rare occasion that Cullen pays her a social call, it’s never in the daytime hours. It’s only ever after night has fallen and the fortress has gone quiet.

But that hadn’t been the case when he’d come to see her that day and had spent most of it in her rooms. And Asha notices, now, that _he_ seems a little less frayed at the edges along with her. There are still many responsibilities to take care of--reports from all corners of the continent, the continued efforts to ferret out Samson, and the more immediate issue of the ball at the Winter Palace.

But around her, he’s slightly more open. Not that he was ever guarded against her since their relationship began, but Asha can tell that there’s an easy freedom to it now that hadn’t been there before. She feels it too.

Later, once the training session is over and has been declared a tentative success, Asha walks Fiona and the mages who’d participated back to the tower. Fiona studies her with a sharp gleam in her eye, and she says, “I admit, I had my reservations about this, Inquisitor.”

Asha hums thoughtfully and says, “I think it worked out well, though. And it should continue.”

“Agreed,” Fiona answers. The ghost of a smile touches her lips, and after a long moment, she adds quietly, “If I may be so bold, Inquisitor, I believe that you and the Commander should maintain a continued presence at these integrated training sessions.”

The words spoken in earnest nearly make Asha pause, but she keeps her voice carefully neutral when she asks, “Oh?”

Fiona nods, hands clasped in front of her as she studies her charges while they walk on. “We have known nothing but the Circles for a long time. Under the eyes of Templars who seemed more like jailers than anything… We all know that things are different now, but it is still a difficult thing, to not feel apprehensive about working alongside those who, not long ago, we were meant to do nothing but fear. And they were meant to fear us in turn.”

Asha’s breath catches for a moment when Fiona glances at her again, an unreadable but intense emotion shining in her eyes.

“Commander Cullen was Kirkwall’s Knight-Captain,” Fiona says, quiet enough that only the two of them can hear. “And you were an apostate who needed to avoid the Templars at all costs. Just a few years ago, a man like him would have had to hunt down a woman like you. And a woman like you would have killed a man like him without hesitation. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Asha responds softly, seeing no point in declaring otherwise. It’s a truth--a truth they are all aware of, though she isn’t quite certain what Fiona’s point is.

But when Fiona speaks again, she understands. “Seeing proof that it’s possible for people like you--like us--to be unafraid… To see something being nurtured besides fear, mistrust, and animosity…” A beat passes, and then she continues, “It was inspiring. Your actions give us proof that more can be done. That we do not have to be afraid, or ashamed, to work together. I believe that did more than anything else to encourage confidence that this might truly work. I believe we need more of that.”

Asha thinks, briefly, of how natural and necessary it had felt to be that woman when everything had begun, all those months ago. The apostate. Wary and fearful. How suspicion had felt like her only ally sometimes, as she’d had no choice but to almost constantly be in the presence of a man who had been a Templar. Who had been, at one time, a person that would have hunted her down without question. Who, at one time, she would’ve hated. Would have killed.

Overriding that instinct had not been easy.

And she thinks of how now, she can never imagine being that woman again. How suspicion and mistrust had eventually given way to curiosity, and then understanding, and then a multitude of moments and conversations that had all led, in the end, to trust. To friendship.

To love.

“I agree,” she murmurs. “We need more of that.”

 

XXX

 

_Cullen,_

_Fiona actually wants us to be there for future training sessions. Apparently, she believes that you and I beating each other into the dirt and laughing about it was inspiring. I really am going to get you for that remark, by the way._

_\-- Asha  
_ _P.S. Do you think Josephine would be very angry with me if I stuck the seamstress with a pin? Because I am starting to believe she’s doing it to me on purpose._

 

_Asha,_

_Somehow, I actually believe that as well. I was expecting something to go wrong--I can hear you rolling your eyes at this, but you can hardly blame me for being concerned. But morale seems to have gone up; I had six more recruits stop by before midday to express their interest in these sessions. I wouldn’t mind continuing as we were._

_Also, we both know you aren’t going to, but if you need another reason to be convinced, I caught Josephine biting her nails a little while ago. She didn’t even notice me walking through her office._

_\-- Cullen_

 

_Cullen,_

_Oh Creators, she really thinks this is going to blow up in our faces, doesn’t she? I’ll get Leliana and see if we can’t calm her down with some tea. Or something stronger._

_\-- Asha  
__P.S. You wouldn’t? Even if it means we have to show the rank and file how to properly defend themselves against magic? Even if_ _it--_ (Here, a large blotch of ink has dripped on the page.) _\--means I have to use magic against you to demonstrate?_

 

_Asha,_

_Yes, even if it means that. If I am having a bad day, obviously we shouldn’t--but otherwise? The Venatori out there are just as much of a danger as the Red Templars. If it makes our people more confident to learn how to fight directly from you and I, then we should keep teaching them. Tell Fiona it’s fine._

_I know you are worried. You do not have to be. I trust you implicitly._

_Since when do you drink, by the way?_

_\-- Cullen_

 

_Cullen,_

_Since Leliana and Josephine realized I never have before, and they don’t want me getting roaring drunk off of one glass of wine at the ball. As hilarious as it sounds, me vomiting on the Empress of Orlais would be a bit of a disaster._

(Here, a droplet of water or two runs the ink.) _Thank you, ma vhenan._ (It looks as though one, short sentence was written after, and then was immediately crossed out to be completely illegible.)

_\-- Asha_

 

_Asha,_

_I should be thanking you; I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in ages. If disaster strikes, aim for the Empress' shoes. I think Leliana would have a heart attack._

_\-- Cullen_

 

_Cullen,_

_You are terrible, and I love--_ (Here, a frantic, very dark scribble.) _\--your suggestion. I value my life though, so I'm afraid it's been summarily rejected. Also, Josephine saw it, and she says if I even think of doing something like that, she will throttle me before anyone else can, and I am now restricted to no more than two glasses of wine at the ball. So much for having fun._

_\-- Asha_

 

_Asha,_

_When I think of Orlais, the last word that comes to mind would be 'fun'._

_\-- Cullen_

 

_Cullen,_

_I feel exactly the same way--but I think the wine would have helped._

_\-- Asha_

XXX

 

After calling in a favor owed to the Inquisition on behalf of the recently installed Duchess Caralina of Lydes, Asha finds herself breathing deeply as she watches sunlight play on the broad windowpanes of the woman’s estate. Right then, it feels as though the last bits of her freedom have begun to slowly trickle away.

She can’t help but lightly gnaw on the inside of her cheek, just so she can focus on something besides the dread in the back of her mind. She’s temporarily broken the urge to bite her lip from nerves, if only because the paint on her lips is slick and easily ruined. Asha can’t exactly afford to ruin a single thing, not even something as trivial as cosmetics.

The ball is only a few hours away. Ornate, gilded Orlesian carriages are most certainly waiting to transport her and the rest of the inner circle to the Winter Palace, another asset donated temporarily to their cause, so they would not find themselves forced to rely on Grand Duke Gaspard to get them to Halamshiral as he’d likely expected.

Asha wishes, not for the first time, that she could have seen the look on his face when he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to arrive with her on his arm and the Inquisition supposedly in his pocket. Even if she doesn’t have the knack for every aspect of the Grand Game, Josephine has been playing their cards well.

But tonight, she cannot rely on Josephine. Nor can she rely on Leliana. Not really.

From now until they leave Halamshiral, Asha can rely on nobody save for the unrecognizable woman that she finds staring back at her when she turns and looks in the mirror.

Her skin is smooth and clean, thoroughly scrubbed and lightly perfumed with the scent of sweet violets. Gone is the sharp, cool scent of elfroot and the earthiness of herbs. And cosmetics are _de rigueur_ in Orlais, so she has lacquered nails and shimmering, jewel-green pigment along with kohl lining her eyes.

Distinctly Elven. That had been how she’d wanted to look. And it had been managed--all that, and more. Nobody will look a thing like her at the Winter Palace. Nobody will be able to keep their eyes from wandering to her, over and over again.

The design of the bodice matches Asha’s mask, silk brocade patterned like dappled sunlight filtering through a forest canopy. High neck, no sleeves, and a neat row of pearly, little buttons down the length of her spine; layers of gossamer, deep green fabric spill from the cinched waist, with slits up the side to her thighs, leaving her lean legs and sandaled feet exposed when she walks. Where Orlesian fashion is lurid and, in her opinion, gaudy, she is elegant, garbed in nature--grass-green and golden sunlight.

And Serault glass, the multicolored glitter of her mask matching the cuffs deliberately elongating the tips of her ears and the crystals practically dripping from her wrists. Asha is beginning to think that the accessories are as much a warning as they are a fashion statement: one wrong, reckless move, and something might shatter. Her breath comes a bit raggedly at the thought.

A sharp knock at the door startles her out of her mute staring, and Asha turns just in time to hear the latch click open and see Cassandra stomping into the room. She slams the door shut and presses back against it, scowling deeply.

“I feel like a trussed-up chicken,” she growls, eyes flashing behind the Nevarrite mask she wears. It’s fashioned to look like the head of a snarling dragon.

Asha slowly quirks a brow, suppressing a smile. The sun will grow cold before anyone manages to get Cassandra Pentaghast into a gown ever again, but the intricate armored corset she wears over dyed black dragonscale lends her formal armor fashion as well as function. And considering her ties to royalty, the court will probably overlook the non-traditional garb.

Asha gestures to the outfit. “Chickens look like that, do they?”

Cassandra’s eyes narrow down to fine slits. “ _Ugh._ Shut up. I look ridiculous.”

“I think you look dashing.”

Even half covered, Cassandra’s face flames brilliantly enough to make Asha smile. “You’re trying to embarrass me!” she snaps, flustered and still pressed flat against the door.

Asha rolls her eyes. “Hardly. I know the concept is a bit foreign to you, ma’iovro, but it’s called a compliment, and friends generally give them to one another often.”

Cassandra makes another disgusted noise. “I see you’ve been spending plenty of time with Varric in between canoodling with Cullen--what!” she says, voice sharply pitching up when Asha snorts loudly. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Canoodling,” Asha chokes, shoulders shaking. She blinks fiercely to keep tears of mirth out of her eyes and thinks that she has never been as grateful for Cassandra’s presence as she is right now. The best part about the comfort that she provides is the fact that she has no idea she’s doing it.

Cassandra scoffs, folding her arms across her chest. “I fail to see what’s so funny about this--any of this,” she says acidly, shaking her head. “Maker only knows what we’re going to be dealing with in the heart of the Orlesian court. If anything, you should be--” She stops abruptly, mouth snapping shut as realization flashes in her eyes. “Oh.”

Asha cocks her head expectantly. “What?”

Cassandra looks a bit embarrassed when she says, quietly, “You have the most to worry about out of any of us. And here I am complaining about clothes.”

Asha lets out a soft huff of laughter, idly picking at the glittering crystals wrapped around her wrists. “I like hearing you complain, odd as that sounds. Especially about something as trivial as fashion. It keeps me out of my own head.”

A pregnant pause stretches between them before Cassandra manages to ask, “Have you heard anything?”

Pain that she will need to hide later flashes briefly in Asha’s eyes when she glances up. “Nothing,” she says. “Not that I expected anything different. It’s too soon.”

“They will be fine,” Cassandra says, a bit stiffly. Her face flushes; she’s uncomfortable, but she tries to be reassuring nonetheless. “If the way they raised you is anything to base assumptions on, then your clan is strong and will come out of this just fine, and they will chide you for worrying so much. As you always do with us.”

Asha’s eyes are a bit glassy, but she manages to keep the tears at bay when she smiles brilliantly and teases, “See? A compliment.”

Whatever Cassandra might’ve said in response is moot when another knock sounds at the door. Cassandra turns to peek outside before throwing it open, and Asha manages to straighten her posture and hold her head high before a footman enters the room. He snaps a salute and says, “The carriages are ready whenever you are, Your Worship.”

“Have everyone else settled in, first,” Asha orders, dismissing him with an airy wave of her hand that she’d perfected thanks to Vivienne. He departs with a nod, and she turns to Cassandra, fighting the urge to fiddle with her hair. Josephine would never forgive her if she disturbed the immaculate curls. “That’s your cue. You’re sharing a carriage with Varric, by the way--please don’t kill him.”

“ _Why_ would you do that to me?”

“Because if you can survive hours in a carriage with him and not shed blood, you can definitely survive tonight without punching a noble, no matter how bady they might infuriate you,” she replies smoothly.

That takes the fire out of Cassandra’s eyes; it’s not as if she’s wrong. Still, she says, “Well, I’m dragging Solas in there with us. With luck, Varric will be too obsessed with his hideous hat to bother me.”

Asha’s lips twitch. “Hideous hat?”

“It’s ghastly. You’ll see it when we arrive at the ball.”

“I’m almost looking forward to it now,” she says, shaking her head. “Go on, Cassandra. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Cassandra nods but hesitates in the doorway. “If anyone can get us through this night in one piece, it is you, my lady,” she says, and then she is gone before Asha can respond.

“Another compliment,” she murmurs to no one but herself, turning back to give the mirror one last glance. She still finds a stranger looking back at her.

Asha allows herself the luxury--the aching familiarity--of feeling terribly lost and lonely for one short moment. Just to feel something honest and real. But by the time the soldier returns to escort her to her carriage, she has become that stranger in the mirror, with the beautiful dress and an expression that gives nothing away. Everything stays hidden behind the mask.

For the sake of all that they are trying to accomplish, Asha will keep it that way.

 

XXX

 

The Winter Palace’s courtyard is known as the Emerald Crown, and with good reason. Verdant with trees in bloom, and the air perfumed by the many immaculate flower boxes decorating the grounds, it’s a lovely first impression. Even more so with the Winter Palace’s pale stone and gilt facade towering high above.

Yet Asha finds she is incapable of caring much for the view; what beauty the night possesses is immediately spoiled by the presence of Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons.

He, like the many others of nobility milling around in the courtyard, lands eyes on her the moment that the wrought iron gates part to allow her through, escorted by her honor guard. Only he would be so bold as to approach her, however, the soldiers parting and standing at attention as Asha walks forward to meet him.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” he greets her, giving her a proper bow. Asha suppresses a shiver of disgust at his oily voice. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

“And you as well,” Asha murmurs, dipping into an elegant curtsy. Her gaze flicks quickly over him as her head bows; his belt holds a sword in its scabbard on one side, and an empty dagger sheath on the other. Her eyes narrow, but her expression is the picture of serenity when she rises.

Something unpleasant and hungry glitters in his masked gaze as he looks at her. “The rumors coming out of the Western Approach say you battled an army of demons.” He smiles then, folding his arms and adding, “Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais.”

 _‘The idea that I would need you to accomplish anything is laughable,’_ she thinks sharply. A private indulgence to her own anger--at him, for his smug certainty that she does, and at herself, for not being able to do anything about it but let out a breathy laugh.

“And which one _was_ the rightful ruler, again?” she asks, taking a step towards him. Gaspard doesn’t step back, but he stiffens almost imperceptibly. “So many claims; how will I keep from getting them confused?”

His answering chuckle grates on her ears. “If you keep watch, he may appear--probably by the brandy,” he says conspiratorially, and Asha’s gut roils. Then again, Gaspard is no fool. At least some part of him must suspect that she would sooner gut herself than ever find him charming, no matter how hard he tries. He lets out a soft huff, amused. “I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor.”

“No,” she murmurs, delicately laying a hand on his arm when he offers it to her. All around them, the steady hum of whispered gossip rises in a flurry of words and motions as he begins to lead her in a slow turn around the Verchiel Fountain. “You don’t seem like the type of man to forget.”

His smile tightens. “You help me, I’ll help you,” he whispers in her ear, eyeing the glittering cuffs as he does so. His expression is unreadable. “My lady, are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the grand ball with a hateful usurper?”

Asha cuts her eyes at him. “Are you prepared to heighten that shock with me on your arm?” she counters, just as they pass a pair of nobles who hiss derisively that the Maker would choose no elf savage to carry out His work. She smirks at Gaspard who watches her thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine the court will see a more stunning sight than the pair of us in their entire lives. I do hope no one faints.”

“You’re a woman after my own heart, my lady,” he says greasily, and Asha takes a careful breath in through her nose. At least with the pleasant babble of the fountain waters, nobody will be able to hear her teeth grinding furiously. If all else fails, at least she can appeal to his vanity.

They halt their walk directly in front of a cascade of water from the mouth of a golden lion carving; Gaspard glances around briefly and then says, far too lightly, “As a friend, perhaps there is a matter you could undertake this evening. This… elven woman, Ambassador Briala. I suspect that she intends to disrupt the negotiations.”

Asha carefully removes her hand from his arm, folding her hands together and smiling expectantly. Waiting for the other shoe to drop and squeezing her fingers so she doesn’t get _angry_. The air around her remains the same temperature, with great effort.

“My people have found these _ambassadors_ ,” he sneers derisively, unaware of her tension, “all over the fortifications. Sabotage seems the least of their crimes.”

Her heart throbs painfully in her chest. She keeps her expression vacant. Either Gaspard doesn’t seem to think that he’s offended her, or he doesn’t care if he is. _‘I despise you,’_ she thinks, right before she says, blithely, “I do hope there’s more to your suspicion than, ‘The elves were acting dodgy,’ my friend.”

She could cut her tongue off for those last two words alone. _‘I’m supposed to do this all evening.’_

But it’s enough that he realizes that he has, in fact, been offensive. And if he needs her, he can’t afford to be. “That ‘ambassador,’ Briala, used to be a servant of Celene’s. That is, until my cousin had her arrested for crimes against the empire to cover up a political mistake,” he explains, telling her what she already knows. Still, Asha pretends to be surprised. “If anyone in the room wishes Celene harm, Inquisitor, it’s _that_ elf. She certainly has reason.”

“I see,” Asha murmurs, thinking that just about every elf in Halamshiral could say the exact same thing. But Gaspard clearly considers Briala a direct threat--not to Celene, but to him.

When she says nothing more, Gaspard sighs quietly--tiredly. _‘Fake,’_ her mind hisses, waiting for him to try and tug on her strings, bracing for the attempt at manipulation. “Be discreet,” he warns her. “I detest the Game, but if we do not play it well, our enemies will make us look like villains.” And then he smiles, as though they haven’t just been discussing political subterfuge. “We’re keeping the court waiting, Inquisitor. Shall we?”

Asha gives him a charming smile and says, “Ah. A shame to leave the courtyard so soon. I’ve never seen such beauty in my life.”

Another lie. The forests her clan had wandered were more beautiful than this Emerald Crown--this cheap imitation--could ever hope to be. The Skyhold Garden, too. In fact, even Cullen’s office, with its low torchlight and stacks of books and scrolls scattered across every available surface, would be a far more beautiful sight.

She nearly winces at the painful ache that swells in her chest at the thought. _‘Cullen_ ,’ she thinks, unable to allow herself any more than that.

Asha’s comment has the desired effect; Gaspard nods understandingly and leaves her with a direction to simply meet him in the palace vestibule when she is ready. “I assure you, were I Emperor, the Inquisition would be welcome in my palace at any time. But I agree; there is nothing quite like the first sight of it. Enjoy it, my lady.”

“I will,” she replies, demurely inclining her head.

Asha resolves to ignore the fact that when she is alone by the fountain, she still finds that she can’t quite breathe. Her lungs fill, but there is no relief. There won’t be for a long while, she reminds herself, slowly turning away to explore the rest of the courtyard.

She ignores the whispers at her back. Even when they grow louder, until they're no longer whispers. Even when she begins to hear the slurs.

 _‘I should thank Vivienne for helping me,’_ she thinks hollowly, blocking out the noise. _‘She was right.’_

 

XXX

 

“Inquisitor,” comes Josephine’s slightly harried voice in her ear when she arrives at the gates to the palace. Asha turns, brow arching. “A moment, if you please?”

“Are you alright?” she asks, threading her arm through Josephine’s and slowly leading her up the staircase to a nearby balcony. Her ambassador looks stunning, resplendent in a heavy silk gown with--she notes with slight amusement--a grand amount of ruffles. But behind the golden mask she wears, her eyes are strained. “What’s wrong?” she whispers, and somehow, Josephine only looks more pained at the question.

“I must warn you before you go inside,” Josephine says lowly. “How you speak to the court is a matter of life and death. I know that you’ve heard this before, but… Inquisitor, it is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol. You understand those. This is… Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness.”

Asha’s eyes slowly harden. “I am not afraid of them,” she says--and she means it. Suddenly, she is the most certain she’s been all night.

And it stings a bit that Josephine seems to doubt her capability.

Josephine hesitates for a moment before she says, “These people burn entire cities as a diversionary tactic and assassinate people as a political feint. The Game is like Wicked Grace played to the death--you must never show your cards. And when you meet the Empress, the eyes of the entire court will be upon you.” A beat passes, and then she adds, a bit weakly, “You were safer in the Fade with the fear demon.”

Asha blinks. “Oh,” she says simply. She doesn’t say what she’s realized aloud--that Josephine is not concerned about her capabilities, or her manner, or the damage that she might potentially do to the Inquisition if she missteps or misspeaks.

Josephine is afraid. For her.

“You know, some noblewoman lost a ring,” Asha says nonchalantly, ignoring the confusion that sparks in Josephine’s eyes at the abrupt topic change. She shakes her head and laughs, though the sound is without much mirth. “She caught me passing by. Called me a rabbit and asked me to fetch it for her if I found it.” And then her expression shifts, something hot glinting in her gaze. Her eyes are luminescent in the dark. “Do you know what I did?”

Josephine swallows hard. “What?”

Asha murmurs, “I noticed it sitting by the edge of a fountain; a thing that gaudy, I’m surprised she missed it. But then, I suppose she didn’t. I nodded and asked, ‘Isn’t that it over there?’ And I pointed. And I saw the moment she realized that she had two options--pretend it was the wrong ring and lose it, or go pick it up and look like a rabbit had just ordered her around.”

“Who was the ring from?” Josephine asks quietly, trying to work out how the situation had ended before Asha can tell her.

Asha’s eyes glitter with amusement. “Montbelliard?” When Josephine’s eyes widen, she nods, knowing the ambassador understands. “Yes. So that noblewoman walked right over to where I pointed. She picked up that ring, looked like a fool--probably felt like one, too, being outwitted by a _rabbit_ \--and had no choice but to publicly thank me for her trouble. So you see… I am not afraid of them.”

“I see,” Josephine breathes, relief coloring her tone. She gives Asha a nervous smile.

Asha pats her on the hand as they begin to make their way back to the palace gates. “I can understand why you wanted to warn me,” she says. “But if anything, I think the others should hear it instead. Particularly Cassandra, who is rarely subtle or cautious.”

Josephine’s hand tightens around hers so fiercely that she feels her bones creak. “I will have a word with her,” she says sharply, releasing her and making a beeline for the gates. The guards part them dutifully, and as she goes through, her sensitive ears catch Josephine’s hastily muttered, “Andraste watch over us all.”

Asha can’t help but crack a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of tabs I have open for the sake of correctly portraying the events at Halamshiral are, quite frankly, embarrassing.
> 
> Up next: to the court!


	27. Intrigues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are no friends in the Winter Palace. We are all alone here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another effective summary for this chapter would've been: everything happens so much. Siiiiigh.
> 
> On a fun note, though, I've found that the little 'rewind' interlude in Hamilton's 'Satisfied' is a fantastically inspiring chunk of music when you need to write a moment where time seems to slow down. Ironic, but effective.

_"And no rivers, and no lakes, can put the fire out._  
_I'm gonna raise the stakes._  
_I'm gonna smoke you out."_  
**\-- 'Seven Devils' by Florence + the Machine**

* * *

 

“Seriously, have you seen the stairs? I think they’re gilded.”

Cullen snorts at Varric’s muttered aside and says, “I think _everything_ in this damned palace is gilded.” He grunts quietly, irritation that melts into a sigh of resignation. “I need to have this jacket let out.”

Varric chuckles. “It’s a little late for that, Curly.”

“Maybe if you stop fiddling with the sash, it will fit better,” Cassandra snaps, batting his hands away from the royal blue silk wrapped tightly-- _'Too tight,’_ he thinks, jaw clenching--around his waist. Cullen glowers at her, and she folds her arms and pins him with an unimpressed stare.

Varric watches the situation with a little too much interest, clearly hoping one of them will do something stupid.

Cullen looks away first, scowling. Much as he might wish for nothing more than the ability to tell Orlais to go hang itself and then return to Skyhold, isolated by the Frostbacks and safe behind sturdy stone walls, that’s not an option. He can suffer through an evening surrounded by Orlesian nobility in nothing more than formal attire-- _not_ , he notes with a touch of envy, formal armor like Cassandra--and a plain silver mask.

Even if he feels far, far too unprotected. Even if the high neck of the wool coat makes his skin prickle with discomfort and something he’d rather not think about. Cullen tells himself that he’s being melodramatic. He’s imagining things. The jacket is not too tight. He is not unsafe. They have all prepared for this for months, and even as they mill about the vestibule, their people are slowly moving to take their places in the Winter Palace in the hopes of discovering Corypheus’ assassin before any harm can be done. Their plan is in motion.

 _‘It’s fine_ ,’ he thinks, forcing himself to ignore the niggling little voice in the back of his head trying to remind him that he is lying to himself. He takes a deep breath--and then he grimaces at the thick, unpleasant scent of the heavily perfumed air. It’s cloying.

Eyeing the great doors on the other side of the vestibule, Cullen’s gaze lands on Grand Duke Gaspard; his eyes narrow. The man stands with a pair of chevaliers, making easy conversation. Cullen isn’t quite certain how to feel about him; his claim to the Orlesian throne is legitimate, and he has chevalier support, as well as the support of any who would see the empire restored to its glory days of conquest. That goes a long way, in his opinion; there are many things about Orlais he could turn his nose up at, but their military strength is not one of them.

He might do a better job of preserving the nation’s strength, where Celene only seems to fracture it. In the more immediate future, that stability is vital.

But Gaspard is not a good man. They’ve had enough war councils filled with detailed briefs on each major player in tonight’s Game for him to be well aware of that. He frowns deeply, considering.

Cullen isn’t certain they can be picky about whatever outcome is achieved at the end of the night. Orlais must remain stable, and Corypheus must be weakened. Cullen frowns; anything else is not a high priority--not tonight, in any case.

And if anyone is capable of getting decent results out of situations where none appear to be available, it is Asha. He’d learned that a long time ago.

A short huff from Cassandra draws him out of his thoughts; she glances over her shoulder, in the direction of the grand ballroom, and says, “The sooner we go inside, the sooner we can get this over with.”

Cullen starts to agree, but the tinkling of glass sounds at his shoulder, and he stiffens at a sudden presence at his back. But then a familiar, dainty hand is at his elbow, touching him gently before it disappears, and he relaxes. He’d know that touch anywhere.

“Patience is a virtue, ma’iovro,” Asha says to her, and he turns at the sound of her voice.

His breath catches in his throat as everything else seems to slow down.

Her eyes are the first thing that he notices--that he’s truly aware of, really. Staring up at him from under thick, black lashes, familiar even lined with cosmetics and behind a glittering glass mask that constantly catches the light. He isn’t certain if the punch of shock that vibrates through him comes from how vibrant they look, or if it’s because his immediate reaction is awe swelling in his chest and not a single scrap of anxiety.

Awareness of everything else comes after. Her languid smile as his gaze roves over her--over the riot of wild curls and intricate braids threaded with glass beads that her hair has been styled into, the jewelry encircling her ears and wrists, the forest-green dress that sweeps down to the marble floor. He has a momentary, fierce urge to run his hands over it, to feel the gossamer fabric spilling between his fingers.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Varric chuckling at him and whatever expression he must be wearing at the moment. He can’t really find it in himself to care. He’s entirely transfixed by the way that Asha cocks her head to the side, studying him, and the glass beads chime softly with the motion.

“Handsome,” she murmurs. Cullen’s heart throbs, almost painfully. A short silence descends, but by the time he’s realized that he should tell her--that he _needs_ to tell her--how utterly breathtaking she looks, the moment is gone, and she’s asking, “How goes the night so far, Commander?”

Her use of his title is deliberate--a reminder. He leans close and murmurs in her ear, “It will take some time to get our men into the palace, even with Sera and Blackwall assisting. I’ll alert you when we’re ready.”

Asha nods once and says, “Alright. You all go in first--I’ll see you inside.” And then she’s turning away, and Cullen feels the absence of her gaze like a physical blow, knocking him into action.

“My lady,” he whispers, and he’s rewarded by her pause, by the way she turns back and her skirts swirl elegantly about her, briefly exposing the lean length of her leg. The glimpse he gets of the way her golden sandals twine up to the knee makes his mouth go dry. He swallows hard and says, breathless and far more transparent than he should be tonight, “You look beautiful.”

She is by far the most beautiful woman in the room. In the palace. In the country. In the entire world, past, present, or future--more beautiful than the Maker’s holy bride herself. She is the most beautiful woman he will ever see or know in his entire life. That’s what he should tell her, wants to tell her. But he can’t, both for propriety’s sake and because words are, as always, failing him, lacking a path from his mind to his mouth.

But the spark of honest delight igniting in her eyes, and the way her breath hitches when she gives him a dazzling smile in response, will stay with him for the rest of the night. Long after that, even. “Serannasan ma,” she murmurs, inclining her head--and then she is gone.

And then Cullen realizes that, despite how the moment had felt, he hadn’t been alone with her just now. He winces, turning back to find Varric deliberately grinning at the floor and Cassandra looking at him with the oddest shine in her eyes.

“That was very romantic,” she says after a long silence, more to herself than either of them. Cullen blinks hard.

Varric doesn’t bother to stifle his laugh. “Curly, a regular prince charming--I should put that in my next book,” he says teasingly, eyes glinting. “ _All This Shit is Weird: The Inquisitor Lavellan Story_.”

“No,” Cullen says flatly, turning away from him without bothering to specify which of those things he is objecting to.

He’s not quite out of earshot when he hears Cassandra hastily repeat, “That was very romantic, you should put it in the book.”

Varric snorts. “Are we actually agreeing on something, Seeker?”

She lets out a slightly flustered huff. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

XXX

 

Empress Celene is a coldly beautiful woman with a piercing gaze, standing at an upper railing overlooking her entire court. Everything about her--her unblemished hands, her stiff neck held high, the voluminous cascade of her royal blue silk and gold gown--is poised _just_ so. Calculated, deliberate, projecting no image save for the only one she wants people to see.

Asha bows her head as she dips into a low, graceful court curtsy and endeavors to match the effort. She has a grace period, though, as she lays her hand upon Gaspard’s offered arm as they descend the steps and slowly cross the dance floor. At her appearance, the court has been shocked into thunderous silence.

“Lady Inquisitor Lavellan,” the herald announces her. “Vanquisher of the Mage Rebellion! Crusher of the vile apostates of the Mage Underground! Champion of the blessed Andraste herself!”

The battle to keep her expression unflappable is viciously fought, but won in the end. Asha buoys her spirits by sparing a glance to the nobles who line the railings, watching her with dumbstruck--and some, outraged--expressions. She smiles at them.

Gaspard chuckles darkly as they near the opposite set of steps. “Did you see their faces?” he murmurs as they ascend. “Priceless.”

Asha’s giggle in response is false amusement, but he is none the wiser. They stand below Celene, waiting in respectful silence as the advisors and the rest of her companions are announced one by one. Only a single reaction--one slight crack in the mask--is pulled from her, and it’s a particularly slow blink and a tightening of her jaw when Solas is introduced, last, as her elven serving man.

Gaspard is the one who speaks first, nodding to Celene, and then to the tall, pale woman who saunters up beside her. “Cousin. And my dear sister.”

Celene’s smile bares neat rows of pearly teeth, but her eyes are downright frigid when she bobs in a curtsy and replies, “Grand Duke. We are always honored when your presence graces our court.”

Gaspard lets out a disdainful sniff, abandoning all pretense of politeness; Asha feels an almost curious sense of relief at that. It is better to deal with than his sleazy brand of charm. “Don’t waste my time with pleasantries, Celene,” he bites out. “We have business to conclude.”

“We will meet for the negotiations after We have seen to our other guests,” Celene responds primly.

Asha watches from the corner of her eye as Gaspard gives Celene a courtly bow, his teeth grinding. _‘Off comes that mask,’_ she thinks, faintly amused. She receives a brief acknowledgement before he departs, but Asha’s gaze is turned back towards Celene by then. She waits, the entire court at her back, watching her.

Eyeing their target.

“Lady Inquisitor,” Celene begins, voice lilting. “We welcome you to the Winter Palace. Allow us to present our cousin, Grand Duchess Florianne of Lydes, without whom this gathering would never have been possible.”

Asha drops into another respectful, though less formal, curtsy; though she knows she shouldn’t indulge the whim, she can’t help the desire she feels to look away from Florianne’s unsettling appearance. Her mask is fashioned in the style of great, milky moth’s wings sweeping across her face, the pattern of her gown matching.

 _‘Don’t be weak,’_ she reminds herself, the inner voice sounding like a curious blend of Leliana and Vivienne; her pulse begins to quicken as she forces herself to raise her head high.

“What an unexpected pleasure,” Florianne says, studying her as though she is more a curiosity than a pleasure. “I was not aware the Inquisition would be a part of our festivities. We will certainly speak later, Inquisitor.”

As Florianne retreats through the doors to a nearby balcony, Celene remains, gazing down at her much in the same way. She lets out a ringing little laugh, rolling her wrist and sighing, “Your arrival at court is like a cool wind on a summer’s day.”

Asha smiles, inclining her head; the glass beads in her hair chime. “I am delighted to be here, Your Majesty.”

“We have heard much of your exploits, Inquisitor. They have made grand tales for long evenings.” Something in Celene’s smile shifts, a change so subtle that if Asha hadn’t known to look, she would have missed it. But she recognizes it. The way a look morphs from cordial to calculating. The way her voice follows suit. “How do you find Halamshiral?”

 _‘Half-burned,’_ Asha thinks. Her eyes glint, and her smile turns knowing. This is a test--a soft strike to see what she can get away with. To test what, if any, mettle Asha has to counter it.

“I have no words to suffice,” she responds carefully, deliberately. “Halamshiral has many beauties, and I _cannot_ do them credit.”

 _‘Because there is next to nothing to credit,’_ she thinks, mind’s eye lingering on the vulgar opulence, on the gilt edges of everything and sweeping silk drapes, on marble floors and frescoed ceilings--and on the ashes and bones that must surely still lay in Halamshiral’s streets while Empress Celene, the one who’d laid waste to it all, remains cloistered in her grand palace. _‘You burned it to the ground, shemlen.’_

Celene’s expression remains unchanged, save for the way her eyes harden. She’s caught the meaning--the insult veiled as a compliment. But the finesse must win her favor, because Celene replies, “Your modesty does you credit, and speaks well of the Inquisition.”

Asha can almost hear Josephine sighing in relief, underneath the surprised murmurs that rise up around the edges of the ballroom.

But Celene is not finished with her quite yet. “Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom, Inquisitor,” she says coyly. “We look forward to watching you dance.”

Asha’s smile widens; she is already dancing on the knife-edge between looking sincere and looking feral. _‘Oh,’_ she thinks bitterly, sinking into another low curtsy, skirts fanning around her. _‘I’m sure you are.’_

 

XXX

 

Asha is keenly aware of the weight of the glass in her hand; tiny ripples form on the surface of the sweet ice wine, and she tamps down the anger that swells snapping embers in her chest. She is a long way from having garnered enough favor and charming enough people that the court would overlook an exploded glass.

“A suspicious occult advisor,” she says lowly, free hand tightening on the porcelain skin of Leliana’s arm, “was something I should have been told about _weeks_ ago in the war room.”

Leliana flicks her inky skirts about her and does not falter, though her lips press thin. “At the time, I did not think there was a reason to suspect her. But the situation has changed. Now, I cannot be sure of anything.”

Asha spares a glance at her spymaster; behind the raven’s mask she wears, her eyes are curiously flat. Asha pitches her voice down, so quiet that surely no one else will hear them. “What’s wrong, Leliana?”

Her answering smile is bland. “Whatever do you mean, Inquisitor?”

Asha can hear the threads of her patience fraying. “I mean you devote weeks of your time to ensure that I know exactly how the Game is played and how to play it back, who to speak to and how I must speak to them--you leave no stone unturned, but you forget to name a person of interest until we are already here. That isn’t like you. So tell me, if not as the Inquisitor asking her spymaster, then as a friend asking a friend--what’s wrong?”

Leliana’s laugh is soft, like the chime of a bell. She leads them to an unoccupied chaise nearby and waits until a few curious gazes have turned away from them before she says, “There are no friends in the Winter Palace. We are all alone here.”

“Among _them_ , maybe,” Asha replies, taking a sip of wine. “But not us.”

“You make it sound as though we are above them.”

“Are we not supposed to be?”

That earns her a genuine, faint smile. After a long moment, Leliana adjusts her mask and says, “I recently received a letter from Divine Justinia. A message written months, perhaps even years ago… to be delivered to me if she died.”

Asha blinks, slowly lowering her glass. Despite every warning, every lesson, there is compassion in her voice when she asks, “Are you alright?”

Leliana waves off the question. “I am fine. I have heard of such contingency plans. A sudden death often leaves loose ends.” Something shines brightly in her light eyes. “I’m to go to Valence, a small village on the Waking Sea. There is something hidden there.”

“Why Valence?”

“Justinia was Revered Mother at the chantry there for many years before she became the Divine,” Leliana says softly. “It is a place that holds great meaning for her.”

“And yourself,” Asha murmurs. Leliana says nothing in response, not meeting her gaze. Asha restrains the natural urge to place a comforting hand atop hers. Instead, she says, “You should go as soon as our business here is finished.”

Leliana stills, like one of the many marble statues that line the palace halls. “I had planned on it,” she says. And then, she turns in her seat to face Asha. “Would you agree to come with me?”

Leliana, despite her cool demeanor, has always been a volatile member of the inner circle to deal with. On a list of all the most mortifying experiences she’s known in her life, Asha considers her furious outburst towards her, in Haven’s chantry when she’d returned with the conscripted mages, to be quite high on the list. Dealing with Leliana reminds her of the way that she’d been in her youth, when she had felt every emotion accompanied by a pulse of guilt for being so _open_ , so _wild_.

The realization that she has spent weeks being verbally whipped back into that person just for tonight is unpleasant, at the very least.

But there is something more to Sister Nightingale. A reflection of this experience, perhaps, because the woman who moves silently through shadows, striking fear into the hearts of others, and the woman who prays fervently and speaks passionately about the freedoms that everyone deserves to have are one and the same, each side seemingly at odds with the other.

“Of course,” is Asha’s easy reply. “Whatever you need, Leliana.”

She waits for the reprimand, the warning that she is being too open, too kind--but it does not come. Leliana studies the way the multicolored light glitters within her mask and says, “I have leads that point to the guest wing. It’s a promising place to start looking for clues as to where the assassin is hiding.”

Asha watches her rise, silent.

“I will coordinate with our people to see if I can learn anything more,” Leliana says after another pause. She spares a glance over her shoulder at Asha, who still has not moved, merely watching her with knowing eyes. “I will be in the ballroom if you need me.”

“Dareth shiral,” Asha says cheekily, toasting her; she is not particularly eager to go wading back into the sea of swirling gowns, cloying perfumes, and hissed gossip. The jest earns her another faint smile, and then she is alone.

_“We are all alone here.”_

She downs the rest of her drink in one long swallow.

 

XXX

 

“Don’t head into the servants’ wing if you value your neck. No one who has gone in there has come out again.”

Asha keeps her gaze straight ahead, navigating slowly through the thongs of nobles in the crowded hall. The strains of string music are faint, here, but she catches scraps of the melody. “One of Briala’s people said that?” she murmurs.

Exactly a pace and a half behind her, at her right, Solas follows. The picture of a respectful servant, head kept bowed, though his formal robes lend him the appearance of a High Keeper of the Dales, not an inferior.

Not that any of these Orlesians would know.

“He did,” Solas quietly replies. “Were I more appropriately dressed, I could likely have remained invisible enough to investigate the matter myself.”

“Nobody told you to wear that hat.”

Solas chuckles warmly. “Fair point, though it was not what I was referring to, lethallan.” His eyes glint as they pass through the shadow of a doorway, into a slightly more secluded room full of grand sculptures. “What would you have me do in the meantime?”

“Keep an eye out,” Asha replies, turning her back on the art and facing him. He watches her expectantly, but there’s a lingering amusement in his gaze. Solas is a dear friend, but there are still times when he looks at her as though she is an unknowing child, and her skin prickles as she wonders if this is one of them. Even so, she continues, “I will need you nearby.”

“Expecting a fight?”

“It would be a little naive not to, don’t you think?”

“Hm,” he responds, a short noise of acknowledgement. And then he bows deeply at the waist, saying, “I am here to serve, Your Worship.”

Asha doesn’t quite manage to hide her grimace. She folds her hands together, the crystals at her wrists jingling with the motion. “I expected Dorian and Vivienne to have fun here. You, lethallin, are a surprise.”

 _‘Chuckles,’_ she hears Varric’s voice in her head, a touch wryly.

“We do what we can to make the roles we must play palatable, Asha’revas,” Solas says, startling her both with the use of her full name and the way that a heavier tone colors his voice, at that. He is gone before she can make sense of it, and then a cold hand is at her wrist.

“The floor is red,” comes a whisper, and when Asha turns, she finds Cole’s wide-eyed, watery gaze. He is still the same, dressed in earthy rags, the wheat-colored fringe of his hair obscuring his brow. Nobody else seems to see him. “She called for help, but no one else heard her.”

A frisson of unease slowly creeps up the length of her spine, crawling along the neat row of shiny buttons on her silk brocade. Asha’s hand closes around an etched object that he passes to her, and as she looks down to the cylinder seal, she notes that the floor is pale, pristine marble. No red. Not here.

A short list--names and positions, places and times--is in her hands. And then, hastily scrawled--

_‘Briala, we need immediate support down there. Something’s gone wrong.’_

“The door is locked,” Cole says, following at her heels as she makes for the hall. “You can’t go in.”

“Can you?” she hisses, the shining facade of a woman poised and on par with any Orlesian noble vanishing for this one moment. Her pulse races, trip-hammer beating against her ribs. “Please, Cole.”

“You need me here,” he says, whisper-soft, brushing past her shoulder; he takes the seal from her as he moves and pockets it. “To help.”

She follows the thin shadow of his frame, sandals barely making a sound as she slips across the hall and out an open door into the cool air of the night. The guest garden is much quieter, occupied only by a handful of people and a trio of minstrels. And there is another trio--three women garbed in identical silks and silver filigree masks. They turn as one when she approaches.

“My lady Inquisitor!” the one at the forefront hails her, and they begin to circle her like like magpies eyeing a shiny coin. Asha manages to remind herself, in between their bright words, that this is better than being looked at like a smear of dirt on the bottom of someone’s shoe. Their interest can serve her.

They flutter around her, cooing promises of support from Empress Celene--attempting to entice her with the details of her numerous charms and abilities. They paint her a picture of connections, of diplomatic relations formed all over the world, a long-armed reach across the whole of Thedas. All for the Inquisition.

Asha curtsies graciously, sending them off with a sweet smile and privately thinking that they must hope her to be a grand fool, to try and sway her with things she will have regardless of how the night ends. The only scenario in which she and her Inquisition won’t emerge from the palace successful is the one in which Orlais falls to Corypheus’ machinations.

 _‘That won’t happen,’_ she thinks viciously, circling to the back of the gardens, sequestering herself by the babbling fountain with little piles of glittering coins underneath its surface. She stares into the reflection on the water, spotting a familiar, ghost-pale face peeking down at her from the balcony high above.

When she looks up, Cole is gone, vanished through whatever forbidden entrances to forbidden places he is searching through on her behalf. A pang of guilt gnaws at her gut--that she isn’t doing more, that she isn’t doing _enough_. It remains, eating away at her as she smiles and claps for the minstrels, as she makes polite small talk with the nobles, as she turns her gaze back down at the fountain and pretends to be interested in the caprice coins when really, she is waiting.

Many minutes later, Cole reappears at the balcony’s edge. Half a breath later, Asha blinks and finds him beside her, stained letters in his hands. The blood on his fingers gleams like rubies in the lamplight. And his hands are shaking.

“Cole?” she whispers, head tilting to look at him. His eyes are glassy, looking through her. She means to reach for him, to lay a hand against his brow and ask him if he’s alright, but then he blinks, and his gaze is piercing.

“Cullen is afraid,” he says.

Asha’s hand comes down on his arm viciously, before she can stop herself, but Cole hardly seems to mind the way her long nails involuntarily dig in hard. He is the outlet, the one who welcomes every honest thought and feeling. “What did you say?” comes out a snarl, desperate; deep inside of her, a dangerous spark has ignited at those three words.

“They’re hunting him,” Cole replies. “Following fear. He _shouldn’t_ be here.”

The accusatory tone strikes her right between the ribs, hard. Her hand falls from his arm, fisting in her skirts as she gathers them and turns. “Bring the letters to Leliana,” she says through her teeth, just as a bell begins to toll.

“Help him,” she hears faintly from behind her; she walks faster, out of the garden, the people parting from her path when hit with the force of her hardened gaze. She does not need to be told twice. And they do not need to be told to get out of her way or face the consequences. Sparks pass between her fingers, and she clenches them tighter, fighting for control as she rounds the next corner and speeds through the golden Hall of Heroes.

Asha makes it all the way to the near-empty vestibule, a hand already pressing against the doors leading to the grand ballroom, when she catches the sound of boots steadily clicking on the marble steps behind her. She pauses, feeling eyes at her back, and then a smoky voice reaches her ears.

“Well, well… What have we here?”

Asha stiffens, turning slowly, one hand still on the door.

The woman who approaches her reminds her, somehow, of a raven. More so than Leliana, whose formal gown is fashioned after the sleek image of one. This woman’s style of dress is Orlesian, but it’s off--wine red and abyssal black silk accented with leather and feathers. Something elegant and something wild, much like the golden eyes glinting at her in the light as she stalks towards her. If Asha is the dappled sunlight through a forest canopy, this woman is the pitch blackness that lingers in between the trees when the wilds have long grown dark.

“The leader of the new Inquisition,” she drawls, drawing closer. “Fabled Herald of the faith. Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the hand of blessed Andraste herself. What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial court, I wonder. Do even you know?”

The fact that this woman’s presence is an obstacle stopping her from entering the ballroom and finding Cullen irritates Asha more than the lightly mocking tone, remarkably. She redirects the sting of lightning into her words, rather than from her body--makes them sharp, sardonic. “We may never know. Courtly intrigues are capricious things.”

“Such intrigues obscure much, 'tis true. But not all.” The woman gives her a searching look, and then she inclines her head. “I am Morrigan. Some call me advisor to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane.” She smiles then, red and distinctly predatory. “You have been _very_ busy this evening, hunting in every dark corner of the palace. Perhaps you and I hunt the same… prey.”

Asha blinks once, ears twitching. The glass cuffs clink, and she takes the calculated risk of letting a feral smile spread across her face, smoke on her tongue. “I don’t know, Lady Morrigan,” she murmurs. “Do we?”

Morrigan laughs, dark brows quirking high. “You are being coy,” she says, amused.

“Careful,” Asha corrects. Or perhaps it is a warning.

Morrigan cocks her head to the side and steps close enough for their skirts to brush together. In a conspiratorial murmur, she says, “This may interest you. Recently, I found and killed an unwelcome guest within these very halls.” Her eyes flash. “An agent of Tevinter. So allow me to offer you this, Inquisitor.”

Asha’s expression remains unchanged as Morrigan presses something small and cold into her left hand; her gaze flicks down briefly to the plain key now in her palm. Faintly, the Anchor hums, responsive to the touch of unfamiliar magic--magic underneath Morrigan’s skin, felt even through the leather of her gloves.

She meets Morrigan’s eyes once more, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickling, beginning to stand on end. A knowing look passes between them.

“I found it on the Tevinter’s body,” Morrigan says. “Where it leads, I cannot say.”

“I know where,” Asha replies, very certain. “I've heard a great many rumors tonight, centered around the servants’ quarters.”

Morrigan hums, understanding. Her eyes glint in the torchlight. “Proceed with caution, Inquisitor,” she warns. “Enemies abound tonight, and not all of them aligned with Tevinter. Take care that you do not fall prey to sharks in the water.”

“I assure you, despite the numerous times the word ‘rabbit’ has been directed at me, the _last_ thing that I am is prey,” Asha counters with a steely finality.

A beat of silence passes, something unknowable flickering in Morrigan’s eyes before it vanishes like smoke. And then she nods slowly. “Ah,” she murmurs. “I see. What comes next will be most exciting, then.” From within the ballroom, the bell tolls once more; both of them turn their heads to look at the door. When Asha glances back to Morrigan, the woman is smirking. “Fashionably late,” she remarks, just before she saunters away.

“Cole,” Asha says, once she is alone. He melts from the shadows to reappear by her side; she passes him the key and says, “Go look. And please, come find me if you need me to help.”

“You need to stay,” he whispers, tucking the key into his pocket. He blinks, and she can see the wheels turning in his head as he searches. “Safe and solid, protecting and proud.”

Asha’s breath catches, and her hand instinctively flies up to press against the hard lump beneath her bodice; the locket’s enchantments react to the touch, her skin vibrating with the magic stamped into the silver. She swallows hard.

“He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him. The song isn’t quite so loud when you hold him. The little bottle makes him shake, but he tests the chains, and you throw them all out the window. Ma’halla. Glass instead of chains now, but this, he never wants to break,” Cole finishes quietly.

Asha whirls and throws the doors to the ballroom wide open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Ar lath ma, arasha.
> 
> Elvhen translations, as always, from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen:  
> "Serannasan ma." - A very formal, archaic way of saying, 'Thank you.'  
> Ar lath ma, arasha. - :)


	28. Arasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha brings her free hand up to rest atop the other on his arm; a blatantly intimate move, here, practically able to be considered wrapping herself around him. It draws the gazes of the noblemen and women that they pass, but Asha acknowledges none of them; if he doesn’t care, then neither will she. “Let me take you somewhere quiet, vhenan,” she whispers.
> 
> She expects a protest, as he usually would offer one. Even just a half-hearted one, as though he wants to pretend at prioritizing duty. But something in him seems to fracture at her words, at the offering she’s laid before him; Cullen very nearly sags in relief, only remaining upright by sheer stubbornness and a desire to not do anything particularly stupid, for her sake.
> 
> “Please,” he says quietly, and the protective ferocity bubbling in Asha’s heart surges ever higher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wouldn't fight the entirety of the Imperial Court for your significant other, are you really in a relationship?
> 
> Anyways. This chapter was rough both because it was important, so naturally, I psyched myself out often while writing, and also because I've had a severe depressive episode and I feel like the personification of a hot pile of garbage. But someone sent me a message that said, 'You are the product of so many moments happening Just Right in the past' and I bawled, deleted every outline I had for this chap, and rewrote it fresh. And now I'm happy with it. And I'm a little happy with myself, too. This is, admittedly, half-edited because I need to sleep for like, 1000 years, so it's probably all over the place. But I will edit the rest in the morning! I just want to post it before I go to bed.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading; I'm grateful that you are. 
> 
> Elvhen translation: "Ar lath ma, arasha." - I love you, my happiness.  
> Chapter warnings: Orlesian garbage, depiction of a near-panic attack and fragile mental state, mentions of past trauma, momentary intense self-doubt.

_"The storm is coming soon._  
_It rolls in from the sea._  
_My voice a beacon in the night--_  
_my words will be your light, to carry you to me._  
_Is love alive?"_  
**\-- 'Winter Song' covered by Leslie Odom Jr.**

* * *

 

Vivienne catches her arm the very second that she steps into the ballroom, before Asha can even give the grand space a searching look. Her eyes glint sharply from beneath her jewel-encrusted swan mask, the pure white feathers of her gown glossy in the light. “My dear, there you are,” she says.

 _‘Where have you been?’_ goes unspoken, conveyed only by the slightest edge in her tone.

Asha has little patience for a reprimand right now. Threading her arm through Vivienne’s, she begins a slow turn about the edges of the room; whispers follow at their backs. “Where else would I be?” she murmurs, sticking a little smile to her face. Her eyes continue to roam.

Vivienne does not miss her distraction. She hums thoughtfully, barely sparing a glance towards nobles who recognize the pair of them and wave, hoping to snatch their coveted attention. “How good for the Empress that you do not find her masquerade lacking, then.”

_‘But what are you lacking, Asha?’_

“Oh no,” Asha says. “Not lacking at all.” Slowly, she raises a hand to the high neckline of her bodice, fingers brushing briefly over the barely visible silver chain of the locket around her neck. “Though I am particular about my company this night, I admit,” she says, cutting her eyes at Vivienne.

_‘Where is he?’_

“Of course,” Vivienne says, and her gaze returns to the sea of people surrounding them with greater intent. They walk silently for a few more moments, Asha steadily picking out the people that she might need--Varric, speaking animatedly with a gaggle of noblewomen who appear to hang on his every word. Cassandra, leaning against a marble pillar with a surly expression and her arms folded, deeply unimpressed by the nobleman attempting to talk her ear off. Solas, standing quietly with a trio of elven servants, his hands folded; he catches her eye, and the weight of his gaze remains on her even when she looks away.

But she cannot find the one she wants. The one she is searching for.

And then, Vivienne’s voice is in her ear. “My dear, have you begun to fill your dance card for the night? The court waits with bated breath.”

Asha blinks, holding her expression steady. “I have not,” she answers lightly, though she is confused by the way that the subject change doesn’t provide an answer to her question. “As I said, I am particular about my company.”

_‘Where is he?’_

Vivienne smiles. “Perhaps you should ask the Dowager for a dance,” she says; despite the wording, it is not a suggestion.

Asha picks through what she knows in her mind; she’s crossed paths with the Dowager, a member of the Council of Heralds a few times this night. A woman with as many connections in the elite Orlesian society as she’s had husbands, Dowager Lady Mantillon does not deal with anyone she doesn’t see the benefit of taking favors from. Some say she is the hand that deals the cards of the Game.

 _‘You must dance with the Dowager if you want to play the Game,’_ Asha thinks, recalling a phrase she has heard from Leliana and Vivienne before. Her jaw clenches; she doesn’t want to play the Game.

But she must. “Perhaps I should,” she says stiffly, releasing Vivienne’s arm.

Vivienne’s voice is just the slightest bit gentler when she says, “Perhaps you should; you might find agreeable company.”

The Dowager seems pleased when Asha appears by her side to ask for a dance, though the request is declined for the moment. “You have other dances to perform first,” she clucks, fluttering her silk fan; if she wears a smile, it is hidden entirely behind the porcelain surface of her full-face mask. “Perhaps you will save me a dance for later.”

Asha smiles sweetly, though the action is a strain. She bobs in a respectful curtsy, murmuring, “Another time then, my lady.” She turns away from the old woman--and _away_ from the nobles that crowd back around her, whispering things that make her skin crawl. Things like _exotic beauty_ , and _unexpectedly delightful, for a foreigner_.

She has begun to charm them, and it makes her feel worse; the ever-present knot of tension in her gut twists, tightens. The finery on her skin feels more restrictive than ever, and as she navigates through the crowd, the whispers press in on her. Her eyes continue to roam.

And then she hears it. A phrase that makes her ears twitch before she can stop the reaction, cuffs clinking.

“Commander,” calls a simpering voice ahead; Asha blinks, only just registering another cluster of people gathered around something--someone, she realizes. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the most remarkable eyes?”

“Several times this evening, actually,” comes the response, and even the biting tone of Cullen’s voice doesn’t stop the way her heart surges with affection at the sound of him.

But then Asha recalls Cole’s quiet words in the guest garden. That he is afraid. That they are hunting him. At first, she’d thought that the nobles were being cruel--but now, as she starts towards the crowd in carefully measured steps, Asha realizes that the truth is just as bad. Worse, even.

Because a giggling noblewoman asks if he would like a drink, and he says no. Because a pushy nobleman insists that Cullen dance with him, and he says no. Because another fool nobleman asks, in a tone that is downright sickening in its suggestiveness, to hear about Kirkwall, of all things--and Cullen’s voice nearly shakes when again, he says no. He keeps saying no, and they are not listening to him.

 _“He_ shouldn’t _be here,”_ comes Cole’s accusing voice in her mind, and the rage that rises in her is swift and unforgiving, because she really should have known better. She should have known better than to afford these predators the chance to prey on him when he can’t very well do a thing about it unless they all want a diplomatic disaster on their hands.

So she takes the matter into her own hands; her voice rings out and slices neatly through the tittering crowd--cutting, with all the severity of a sharp dagger. _“Commander,”_ she calls, and like a swarm of insects sharing one mind, every noble surrounding him turns and parts, opening a path for her to finally catch sight of the man that she has been searching for.

The agitation in Cullen’s eyes bleeds into aching relief when he sees her. “Inquisitor,” he breathes, unable to keep his voice steady; a few of the nobles turn their heads, not missing the change in his demeanor now that she is here.

He stands pressed as close as he can be to the wall, like a cornered animal wanting to shrink away.

Asha seizes her willpower in an iron-handed grip; if she were given free reign to do what she wants, she would take Cullen’s hand without a second thought and lead him somewhere far, far away from these predators. But she cannot do what she wants. Not without being subtle and playing games--not if she wants the court’s favor.

But Cullen is wide-eyed, waiting for whatever it is she will say to him--clearly hoping that it takes him away. His shoulders are rigid. And his shaking hands are folded behind his back.

Asha can think of any number of excuses that do not compromise anything nor suggest anything about the truth. She could pretend to scold him for socializing and present the image of a stern Inquisitor who demands propriety over pleasure-seeking. She could pretend that she requires his attention regarding a private matter and present the image of a socially naive Inquisitor who ranks business above the ball. She could even claim that someone else requires his attention and present herself as an Inquisitor who runs errands and fetches people like a servant.

But Asha decides, in that moment, that she has no care for how this gaggle of nobles perceives her. She _shouldn’t_ care about her own image--not now, not about this. Not when she should care about Cullen more. Not when she _does_ care about Cullen more.

So she decides to take perhaps her biggest gamble of the night thus far; she decides to present the truth. Asha cocks her head to the side, the glass beads in her few braids chiming. Her gaze is gentle, and her voice unexpectant, not asking anything more of him other than whatever he is willing to give. “Would you care to walk with me a moment, Commander?”

He closes the distance to her side in an instant, wordlessly offering her his arm without bothering to excuse himself from the crowd. She doesn’t fight the faint smile that quirks at the corners of her mouth as she takes it, fingers curling protectively around his forearm; he shivers, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. He resists the urge to stare at her, but she doesn’t resist her own urge to dare a glance back over her shoulder, throwing a smug, piercing look at the crowd of nobles they depart from.

Their reaction is unexpected, though she has no time to pick it apart; among the disappointment, there is also a growing fascination. As though, with these sudden, telling actions, a shiny puzzle has just been dropped into their laps.

When she turns back around, she feels Cullen’s gaze on her. Asha keeps her eyes forward as she leads them through the ballroom’s edges, though she murmurs a brief apology. “I could have been more subtle about taking you away.” A beat passes. “Though we did get what we both needed, I suppose.”

Cullen blinks, slightly bewildered. “What did you need?” he asks. His voice is a bit ragged.

Asha glances up at him and answers honestly, “Court favor. Though I think in gaining some, I may not have let the cat out of the bag so much as I’ve apparently picked it up by its scruff and flung it clear across the room.”

Cullen snorts, loudly, a genuine smile breaking across his face; the sight of it softens her gaze, drawing a similar expression from her as well. Her heart squeezes almost painfully in her chest when he looks down at her, eyes shining under the silver mask he wears. He surprises her when his response is a firm, “Good.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” Cullen’s smile falters a bit. “One of them asked me if I was married.” He glances sidelong at her, continuing, “I said I was taken, and that fop had the nerve to say I was still single, then. And they kept...”

Asha can feel the flex of his arm underneath his wool coat as his hands ball reflexively into tight fists, the leather of his gloves creaking with the motion. “They wouldn’t leave you alone,” she murmurs understandingly, finishing his thought for him. If her attention drives away theirs, then damn the cost.

Cullen’s jaw clenches, shuddering slightly. “They wouldn’t,” he says, and his voice is rougher at that. Darker.

Asha brings her free hand up to rest atop the other on his arm; a blatantly intimate move, here, practically able to be considered wrapping herself around him. It draws the gazes of the noblemen and women that they pass, but Asha acknowledges none of them; if he doesn’t care, then neither will she. “Let me take you somewhere quiet, vhenan,” she whispers.

She expects a protest, as he usually would offer one. Even just a half-hearted one, as though he wants to pretend at prioritizing duty. But something in him seems to fracture at her words, at the offering she’s laid before him; Cullen very nearly sags in relief, only remaining upright by sheer stubbornness and a desire to not do anything particularly stupid, for her sake.

“Please,” he says quietly, and the protective ferocity bubbling in Asha’s heart surges ever higher.

“Trust me to get us where we need to go?” she whispers, heart beginning to steadily race. She has the Hall of Heros in mind--a trophy room just off the turn from the vestibule that she’d passed on her way back in. Surely there, she can afford him a few minutes of peace. But there are quite a few people to walk by on the way there, and she cannot drop the facade that she’s shorn up around herself for the sake of getting through the night.

Whether Cullen doesn’t understand that she will continue to play the Game, or whether he simply doesn’t care--whether he really does trust her that much regardless of what she needs to do or say--is unclear. His only response is a silent nod, and when Asha glances up at him, he is hazy-eyed, as though he isn’t really seeing the ballroom around them.

She hastens her steps, and he dutifully keeps pace with her.

They nearly make it to the grand doors without incident--but of course, nothing can possibly be that easy. Not in Orlais. They pass the corner where Vivienne appears to be holding her own little court; Asha’s gaze meets hers, and Vivienne gives her the faintest nod of acknowledgment. Whispers hum in the air when the nobles surrounding her notice--scraps of complimentary phrases like _how graceful_ , and _surprisingly elegant_ , and then--

A derisive, nasal voice sneers, “Please. Just whose coffers had to be emptied out to dress a skinny, little thing like _that_ in enough finery to pass as attractive?”

Cullen freezes, and Asha’s heart drops as she clenches her teeth and digs her fingers warningly into his arm. But she hears the furious growl in his throat, and he is halfway to rounding on whoever had dared to insult her in his presence when someone else speaks first.

“My dear,” comes Vivienne’s silky, dangerous voice. “I assure you, the de Ghislain coffers are _quite_ full.”

It is a split-second decision she makes to laugh; Asha turns, the sound high and bright as she startles the nobles with it. A handful of them shift uncomfortably, but Asha can spot the one who’d spoken so thoughtlessly by the mortified expression on his face. Vivienne’s frosty look pins the man in place, and Asha isn’t certain which faux pas must bring him greater shame--insulting the Inquisitor and having her laugh at him, or insulting Madame de Fer’s lover, head of one of the most powerful noble families in Orlais, right in front of her.

Vivienne spares her a glance then, something like approval glimmering in her eyes. Asha gives her a sly smile and inclines her head before nudging Cullen forward. He obeys her silent direction once more, but the scowl remains on his face. Asha squeezes his arm--gently, this time, and his gaze softens ever so slightly.

As they leave, Asha hears Vivienne drawl, “Really, Marquis Guillaume, such foolishness. That _skinny, little thing_ is the Maker’s chosen; she commands a mighty army.”

“The _commander_ leads the army,” Marquis Guillaume sniffs, chagrined.

Vivienne’s answering laugh is snide, a handful of other voices joining in on the amusement at the man’s expense. An unknown Orlesian woman chimes mockingly, “Are you blind, _monsieur_? Just who do you think that is on her arm?” And then the sound of their conversation fades into the din of the ballroom.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asks softly when they cross into the vestibule. Asha gives him a smile that is sincere, if not slightly strained.

“I’ve heard worse,” Asha replies matter-of-factly, knowing there is nothing she can do to blunt that truth. She pauses in the shadow of the doorway to the near-empty Hall of Heros, eyes narrowing at the sight of three chevaliers standing outside the door to the trophy room; they appear almost as if they are guarding it. Silently, she backs into the corner, motioning for Cullen to remain by her side; he obeys, and her ears flick as she strains to listen for their voices.

“Did you see that knife-eared servant girl in the kitchen? The ginger?” one slightly slurs; Asha’s lip curls in disgust.

“Keep talking; I’m starting to believe I was there,” urges another.

“I need to get one of those.”

“Don’t we all?”

Asha glances up at Cullen, fury snapping in her eyes. He looks confused, and she realizes he likely can’t hear the chevaliers; she hisses, “Play along,” and draws him away from the corner, into the hall. Unlike her, he doesn’t soften his steps, his boots clacking loudly against the marble floor. All three men startle at the sound--and then again when they turn and see her.

“I-Inquisitor!” stammers one--the degenerate who’d been lusting after the servant girl. Asha gives no indication that she’d heard their conversation, but the mild panic coloring his tone is viscerally satisfying. “And Commander Cullen--good evening!”

“Gentlemen,” Asha murmurs, while Cullen merely nods in acknowledgement, watching her for cues. “How do you find the evening?”

“Excellent,” the man replies, his companions nodding in agreement. He stands a little straighter, now, regaining his composure. “We’ve heard many stories of your accomplishments.”

Asha laughs, the sound low and sultry--all the men shift their weight, a motion in subtle, subconscious response. She has their attention; she smiles charmingly and says, “I’m sure I have stories to rival anything you’ve heard.”

The men all share an eager look, and another breathes, “Not everyone fights an archdemon and lives to tell. It’s an inspiration.”

A slight flex of her fingers on his arm is all the warning that Asha gives before she glances at Cullen and says, “If you’d like, Commander Cullen could give you all the details of that battle. His strategy was admirable considering there was no time to plan it.” She looks back to the chevaliers and watches their eyes light up from behind their masks.

 _‘Too easy,’_ she thinks, looking past them to the door that they guard. She makes a moue of disappointment and asks, “Is the trophy room sealed for tonight?”

One of the men shifts uncomfortably and says, “Er… Regrettably, yes.”

“What a shame,” Asha sighs. “My commander was looking forward to seeing the spoils of some grand hunts.” She gives Cullen a meaningful look and finishes, “I do hope you aren’t _too_ disappointed.”

“A shame indeed,” he says after a pause, slowly catching on; through the shadows flickering in his eyes, something brighter sparks to life. He holds her gaze for a moment longer before he turns and fixes the chevaliers with a look of heavy disapproval--the kind he only reserves for truly hopeless recruits.

Asha clenches her teeth to keep from grinning in delight at the way that the men seem to wither under the force of his glare.

“Well…” one of the men reluctantly starts. “I am not supposed to leave my post…”

“Phillipe,” another hisses, nodding at Cullen. “The world is coming to an end--if we don’t hear this story now, we’ll never have another chance!”

“A few minutes in exchange for the tale of the battle of a lifetime,” Asha adds, cocking her head. “Is that not generous enough? My commander is in high demand tonight.”

“Yes,” the man blurts, unwilling to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. “Yes, of course, Inquisitor.” He glances at his companions, and they all nod in unison. “We will be in the vestibule.”

“We’ll find you,” Asha says curtly, inclining her head. Once they are gone, she releases Cullen’s arm and shoves open the door; she pauses at the threshold, turning to beckon Cullen inside with her--and she freezes when she notices the too-bright shine in his eyes. “Vhenan?” she whispers.

He swallows hard, bringing a shaking hand up to rub at the knot of tension at the base of his neck. His tongue feels heavy, mouth dry and an insidious little voice in the back of his head mocks him for acting like a child, scared of the _dark_ when he knows there are things capable of inspiring far greater terror.

But the room behind her is cloaked in blackness past what the faint glow of torchlight from the hall can reach. And though he knows there will be peace inside--solitude inside, with her, away from everyone with their roaming hands and sultry voices--he cannot get past this hurdle from his past.

Fear crawls into his throat, raking its ugly little claws through him as it begins to choke reason from him.

Cullen forces the words past his teeth, somehow--a plea. “I need light.”

Asha’s eyes widen in realization. “Forgive me, vhenan,” she says, stepping into the room--into the darkness, which sends a jolt of panic straight to Cullen’s heart. But with a sharp gesture, she sends vibrant magelights spiraling to the high ceiling, suspended, bathing the room in a glow reminiscent of candlelight.

He expels a shaky breath and steps forward when she offers her hand, gaze following the patterns of multicolored light glittering on her brow. And then his eyes meet hers, the familiar, dusky color easing the wretched grip of terror in his lungs. He hardly hears the door shut quietly behind him, but the whisper of her skirts when she meets him halfway seems almost loud when what surrounds them is silence.

Asha’s small hand wraps around his own, the crystals at her wrists jingling softly. “I’m sorry,” she says, and Cullen blinks, looking a bit dazed.

“What for?”

“For using you as bait just to get those chevaliers out of the way,” she answers, brow furrowing. And then, ruefully, “For taking so long to find you.”

A faint huff of laughter escapes him, though the sound is brittle. His lips quirk at one corner, and he replies, “Even I can admit that was rather quick thinking.” Cullen squeezes her hand, briefly. “Perhaps even impressive.”

“Perhaps,” she echoes teasingly, a dazzling smile breaking through the concerned expression she’d worn. The sight of it makes his heart ache, the buzz of nerves in the base of his skull dulling until he almost can’t hear it.

A beat of silence passes, and then he asks, “Did you come looking for me just to take me away?”

“I did,” Asha murmurs, twining her fingers through his. Though his gloves prevent him from feeling the warmth of her skin, his gaze keeps trailing back down to their joined hands. The movements are gentle and soothing. “Was it not obvious?”

He brings her hand to his lips, his words a mumble against her knuckles, “It seemed a little ridiculous to hope.”

“It wasn’t,” Asha whispers, taking in the look of him. Despite the fond look he gives her now, she can make out the tight lines straining at the corners--stress bearing down on him. Memories of things he’d rather forget bearing down on him. He still holds himself stiffly, free hand folded behind his back and breathing slightly uneven.

Slowly, she reaches for the ties of his plain silver mask; when he realizes her intent, he bends to accommodate her. She picks the knots apart and slides the mask from his face, and he sighs when it is gone, as though a great weight has been taken from him. Setting it on the edge of a nearby display, she reaches for him once more. The pads of her fingers ghost over the pink imprints left behind on his pale skin. Cullen closes his eyes, losing himself for a moment in the touch.

“Cole heard you,” Asha explains after a long silence. “He told me that you were afraid. That they were… hunting you.”

When Cullen opens his eyes, the shadows have come back. His throat works for a moment before he says, ruefully, “It’s been a while since I’ve felt that way.”

Asha remains silent, slowly brushing her fingers across his cheekbones, knowing that he will tell her to stop if he doesn’t want her to touch him. And unlike those nobles, she will listen to him. He knows this as well, breathing deeply, keenly aware of the scent of violets on her skin and the almost hesitant way that she touches him. The knot of anxiety in his chest begins to fray, even with the hum of magic filling his ears. With some shame, he wishes that he couldn't hear it.

But the price of total silence is also total darkness--and with the way that her eyes glow in the night, Cullen knows that he _cannot_ risk anything like that; he would never forgive himself if he confused her for someone--some _thing_ \--else. He feels the terror pushing at the edges of his mind, held in a grip born of carefully cultivated willpower.

There are too many things here in the Winter Palace that bring him unwelcome reminders of a time when he had been young and afraid and violated.

He hasn’t yet said what happened to him in Kinloch, not in the exact words. The explanation offered to Asha months ago, that he’d been tortured and nearly broken, in a fractured blur to his memory--self-loathing, panic, an unquenchable thirst, and a tender hope that he hadn’t felt worthy of having--is a vague truth. He hasn’t told her exactly what he’d endured. What had been done to him. Not with words, at any rate.

He doesn’t know if he ever will, if he’s being honest with himself.

The part of him that threatens to collapse in on itself in wretched shame at the idea of getting the words past his teeth knows that he doesn’t _have_ to say it. He knows that she knows the truth. Those keen eyes of hers had spotted all of the pieces to the puzzle even before they’d first looked at his demon-ruined skin.

But in what is perhaps one of the lighter great ironies of his life, it is the sight of those eyes--familiar and bright with concern--that gives him courage. Not enough to square his shoulders and calm the tempest that is his mind, but enough to tell her, “Certain things remind me of Kinloch.” It is not all that he needs to say to purge the flashes of sickening, terrifying memory from his mind, but it is the only thing that he really wants to say right now.

Cullen nearly bites his tongue clean off when a sharp pop bursts through the air, making him flinch violently. Asha’s voice comes in shuddering apologies backed by the sound of glass crunching under her sandaled feet as she rapidly backs away from him. When the scent of lightning faintly stings his nostrils, he realizes what had happened.

The dark strands of an unraveling braid curl loosely behind her right ear, its bead lost to the force of her fury. The fear in him is tamped down to smoldering embers, rather than the raging inferno it had just been.

“Forgive me,” Asha whispers, horrified, hands clapped over her mouth. “Cullen, I didn’t mean--”

“You are angry at them,” he says, and his own voice somehow sounds far away. How he manages to sound in control is beyond him. “It’s alright.”

“No; that can’t have helped,” she hisses, shaking her head. Soft chimes accompany the motion, the sound soothing him more than she knows. It reminds him that he is not anywhere unsafe--not when she is with him.

“You are not the one who frightens me,” Cullen replies matter-of-factly, and she stills, rigid. It’s mostly true--the only times she ever scares him are the times when his mind is weak and he forgets where he is. And that is not her fault. The stiffness slowly bleeds out of her, and she takes one small step towards him.

“May I touch you, vhenan?” she asks plainly. The one person who hardly needs permission, but who waits for it anyway.

Cullen’s answer is the way he strides towards her without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her and holding on a little too tightly. He buries his face in the familiar crook of her neck, struck mute with the aching need to sink into her skin. Her arms encircle him, palms pressing against the shuddering length of his spine.

“They won’t hurt you,” she says, and the words are not a soothing croon. They are white-hot in anger, in deadly intent. Cullen imagines her expression--the one with a fearsome gaze and bared teeth. The one she’d worn the first time he ever saw her, and he’d--predictably--been stupid enough to blame her for the fledgling Inquisition’s dead and dying. Warmth trickles into his bones; that she would wear such ferocity for _him_ is a flattery welcome like no other. It rouses something within him--a pulse of heat that he latches onto eagerly, all too happy to find something to push away the fear.

But with the joy comes guilt, swiftly. “You have enough to worry about,” he says, not adding that he does as well. Most of his worries, though, are centered on her, on what she is expected to accomplish. The world rests on her bare shoulders, even with his men and Leliana’s spies doing what they can to alleviate the burden.

But they can’t. He can’t. And then another fear takes hold--one that plagues him often, one that he usually knows how to manage. But he cannot wrap himself in the mantle of _Commander_ tonight; he is without armor, without a weapon, and--though the thought is selfish--without her for most of it. Without his Inquisitor; tonight, she walks places that he cannot follow.

Again.

 _‘What am I if I can’t protect you?’_ he thinks, keenly aware of the lack of a sword at his hip. His grip on her waist tightens. _‘What am I if I add to your burdens?’_

But Asha strikes his mind into heavy silence when her own grasp on him tightens almost painfully, and she snarls, “Allow me this. They can have their games, I can play their Game, but I would sooner cut out my own heart than I would let them sink their claws into _you_. They will _never_ have you, arasha. Never.”

If he thought he could drop to his knees, basking in the words ringing in his ears like a blessing, and get away with it, he would. But he knows she would lightly scold him for that, thinking him treating her like _Her Worship_ and not Asha. And he knows she hasn’t enough time to hear him explain that, ever since she had encouraged him to love her like a woman and not an icon, he has done just that. He has loved her for so long, worshipped her as just that--the woman underneath the titles, the woman behind the mask.

So instead of dropping to his knees, Cullen draws back just enough to look into her eyes. Just enough to see the fervent desire to keep him safe--the desire that matches his own for her. And then he kisses her, hungrily. Desperately. Passes the worship on his tongue to hers. Her shock is momentary, and he glories in the way she returns the kiss with all of the fire she’d just held in her mouth. The small, heady sound she makes sends electricity skittering across his spine, and he fumbles with his gloves, tearing them off and flinging them away so that he can satisfy the urge to fist his hands in the gossamer fabric of her skirts and imagine, for one wonderful moment, that they are anywhere but where they are now.

 _“I love you,”_ he wants to tell her, heart aflame with the want and the need. He’s held these words secret for weeks, and they beg to be released. But again, they don’t have the time. _‘Later,’_ Cullen thinks; later, when they can be alone-- _truly_ alone, secluded in the Frostbacks. In his office or in her quarters. Doors locked, so that no one can disturb them when he lays his devotion at her feet and prays that he is truly a man worthy of her. ‘ _Later.’_

The minutes pass, a blur of sensation. Touch and taste and sound. Somewhere, a bell rings the new hour, and Cullen grows vaguely aware of the fact that their dual absences have gone on for longer than intended, bound to be noticed. He can hardly find it in himself to care, heart pounding a wild rhythm in his ribs as he cradles Asha’s head in his hands and lays sucking kisses against the column of her throat.

Her skin vibrates under his tongue, and he realizes she’s speaking to him. Whispering softly, repeatedly, “Ar lath ma, arasha. Ar lath ma. They won’t have you.”

A fine tremor ripples through him, and he draws back enough so that he can meet her eyes once more, their gaze intense. Calm and clarity settle over him in a welcome embrace, the steady thump of his heart beginning to even out at last. “Thank you,” he breathes.

She smiles, eyes sparkling. “Alright?” she whispers.

He gives her a crooked smile in return, cupping her jaw and brushing his thumb over the ridge of old scar tissue along its slope. “With you, always,” he says, and her laugh rings out in the room.

“Who fed you that romantic line?” she asks teasingly, bumping her nose against his, unwilling to completely part just yet.

“Dorian,” he replies without missing a beat, chasing that laughter. He earns it once more, the sound rich and lovely and _her_. A genuine reaction--a luxury in Orlais.

“Will you do me a favor, arasha?” Asha asks when they do manage to part, and he begins setting himself to rights once more. She notes that he doesn’t ask after the meaning of her words--sometimes, he doesn’t--but that his expression softens when he hears it. She smiles, heart full to bursting. “Do you know where Dorian is?”

“The last I saw of him, he was heading to the guest garden,” he says, tugging his gloves back on. It isn’t armor, but he absently flexes his fingers, the cool leather a welcome protection rather than a restriction.

“Find him; I’m sure the Orlesians are treating him like a pariah, so you will be safe enough in his company,” Asha says, turning and glancing up at a mounted beast’s head on the wall. She grimaces. “That’s vile.”

Cullen chuckles softly, coming to stand behind her. He wraps his arms around her waist, laying his chin against the top of her head. “Your clan’s hunters don’t take trophies?”

“We don’t waste what we hunt,” Asha murmurs thoughtfully. Her eyes narrow. “What in here holds such great value that three chevaliers had to guard it?” she wonders aloud, turning in Cullen’s arms and scanning the rest of the room. It holds more of the same vulgar displays, carefully preserved corpses of beasts with snarls on their frozen faces.

And then, on the far wall, she spots a door. After a moment, she starts towards it, but Cullen’s snort of amusement gives her pause. “What?”

“Watching the thought process just now that often lands you in the thick of danger was fascinating.”

“You could at least _pretend_ to admire my fearlessness, thank you,” Asha huffs, good-naturedly indignant. She catches the flash of his genuine smile before she turns the latch and steps into a dark, cramped office. She hums thoughtfully, conjuring more light with a gesture and spying two things that catch her eye on the little desk tucked against the back wall.

The first is a small, intricately carved halla figurine with a rectangular base. It fits neatly in the palm of her hand when she snatches it up, resolving to pass it on to Cole when she sees him again. The second is a missive with a broken wax seal; Asha plucks it up and unfolds it, eyes quickly scanning the scrawled words within.

 

_Phillipe,_

_Move in on the western wing when I send you three shots of brandy. Not taking any chances._

_\-- Gaspard_

 

Cullen blinks hard when she turns away from the desk and faces him with a downright feral grin on her face. His heart skips in his chest, and he fights back the flush that threatens to rise at his reaction. “Asha?” he murmurs.

Her eyes glitter with something like triumph despite the fact that the night has taken yet another dangerous turn. But she is still full of the vicious fire that had burned through her when she vowed to protect Cullen, and it fuels her reaction now. “Gaspard is planning a coup,” she says, voice nearly wobbling with the urge to laugh. “Tonight.”

 _‘I have you now,’_ she thinks, the carved horns of the halla figurine biting into the meat of her palm as she clenches her hand into a tight fist. It isn’t bloodlust that licks searing heat into the pit of her gut, but whatever she feels is very, very close.

The insults of the Orlesian nobility before they knew that she could play the Game, she could handle. Gaspard’s sleazy, ineffective charm as he tried to manipulate her, she could handle. Celene's posturing and thinly veiled disdain, she could handle. The whispers, the unwanted admiration, the way that she plasters mask after mask to her face in lieu of real expressions, real emotions--all of that, she could handle.

But the court had fixed their beady, little eyes and their sharp, covetous claws on Cullen. They could take whatever they wanted from her--but him? What they had tried to snatch up, what they had tried to _steal_ from him, when he had said, over and over, _no?_

 _‘They are going to regret the day they let me into this fucking palace; Fen’Harel ver esh’ala,’_ she thinks nastily. _‘I won’t stop until I have them all twisted around my little finger.’_

Cullen’s voice cuts through her thoughts. “A coup?” he repeats, striding towards her. “What did you find?”

“His orders to his men--those chevaliers? They’re moving people into the palace,” Asha explains. “In the western wing.” She waves the paper in the air. “Conceal this until you can give it to Leliana?”

“Of course. And I’ll have our people work around this,” Cullen says, snapping back into his role as her commander with surprising ease. Perhaps it’s because, as always, she has relieved so much of his burdens. His mouth twists, and he falters for a moment. “Are you certain it’s Gaspard? There is no doubt?”

“None,” Asha says, passing the letter to him with a grin. “He was stupid enough to sign his name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [rewrites in-game details to suit my whims] my town now
> 
> me @ myself: don't drag out Halamshiral  
> myself @ me: quite frankly, you need to embrace the fact that you're incapable of being concise. drink another glass of wine. write 6k words of indulgence. do it.
> 
> Up next: Briala! Probably!
> 
> Elvhen translation: 'Fen'Harel ver esh'ala.' - Dread Wolf take them.


	29. Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It occurs to me that you could accomplish a great deal with an army of Elven spies at your disposal, Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmm, I'm so sorry!! Sorry!!! Lol, I genuinely did not plan to let this much time pass before I updated, but first I discovered the Witcher 3 (if you've played the Witcher 3, you Know What I Mean), and then Shit Happened (I don't live that far from Charlottesville, VA), and then once I started feeling up to writing again, I got the good news that it won't be long until my husband's deployment is over--so basically, if I have free time, I'm lacking motivation, and if I have motivation, I'm lacking free time. I swear I'm gonna kick my own ass back into shape, though--I want to finish up the Halamshiral arc before hubs comes home because god knows once he's back, I'm going to take a (not as long as this one) break from writing to climb him like a tree (and if you're reading this, hi honey).
> 
> So!!! Here it is!! Skimmed quickly for an edit because I wanted it up before I go out for the day, but I'll give it another, more thorough one tonight! And I'll also respond to comments--I missed you guys and this fic, sorry I'm garbage, love y'all!

_“What are you made of?_  
_Water and glass.”_  
**\-- 'Sights' by London Grammar**

* * *

 

“Save me a dance?” she whispers teasingly when they emerge from the trophy room, Cullen’s hand pressed over hers in the bend of his arm. The peace of their brief interlude, though welcome, isn’t enough to wipe all the apprehension from his expression; Asha hopes levity might help. That, and she wishes for the sight of one more smile before duty parts them again.

“No thank you,” he replies automatically, voice distant.

Asha blinks, a brow climbing in surprise as Cullen stills. “Oh,” she says. and his expression slides rapidly from polite disinterest to mortification.

“No! I didn’t mean to--Maker’s breath,” he grumbles, cheeks going ruddy. Asha presses her fingers to her mouth, futilely hoping to stifle her amusement. He huffs. “I’ve answered that question so many times I’m rejecting it automatically.”

“It’s alright,” Asha says, voice quivering with laughter. Cullen rolls his eyes, but his lips quirk up at the corners. “I was only teasing you, arasha.”

“Just as well,” he says, still sounding embarrassed. He shakes his head. “I’m... not one for dancing. The Templars never attended balls.”

“Never?” Asha asks, feigning innocence. She smiles. “Templars don’t have balls?”

“No, they don’t,” he says--and then he sighs heavily when Asha giggles. He gives her a look of such deep exasperation that it pulls another peal of laughter from her. “There is an _assassin_ in this Maker-forsaken palace targeting the _empress_ , Asha,” he says flatly.

“Oh,” Asha sighs, swatting his arm. “Don’t pretend you care about Celene. I certainly don’t. I only wanted to make you smile,” she says, thoroughly disarming him.

Cullen can’t help but give her a fond look, though he privately decides to not tell her that under ordinary circumstances, he would’ve laughed at the juvenile joke. But when her touch slips away from him and she pauses at a staircase that he knows leads down--down to the lower level of the Hall of Heros, where the door to the servants’ quarters is tucked away in a dark corner--

Well, there is not much that he can bring himself to laugh at now. “Even if I don’t care about Celene or Orlais,” he concedes, voice pitched low so as not to draw the attention of anyone passing by who might hear. “I… I care a great deal about you.”

Asha reaches up to adjust his silver mask, the pads of her fingers just barely brushing over his skin. It’s a gesture of affection that will not be as easily weaponized as a gentle caress, should anyone see. And because the walls in the Winter Palace tend to have ears, she swallows the urge to repeat her earlier confession to him.

 _‘Ar lath ma,’_ she thinks anyway, heart clenching.

“The feeling is certainly mutual,” she whispers, all she can give him aloud right now. The more seconds tick by, the further away their private moment grows, relegated to a memory she will turn to later when she is back in the thick of the Game, searching for what makes who she must pretend to be worth it. Already, she begins tucking her feelings away--everything save for the burning drive to find more ammunition against the other players of the Game.

But those words are enough; the tender, crooked smile Cullen gives her says as much. “Be careful,” he says quietly.

Asha hums noncommittally, a faint smile playing about the corners of her mouth. “Don’t worry,” she responds, knowing as well as he does that she can’t promise anything. Her eyes glimmer in the torchlight. “I know what I’m doing.”

Cullen quirks a brow like he knows she’s lying--and perhaps he does, because she is--but says nothing in doubt. It’s just as well; Asha knows that there is no room for error or second guesses. She cannot turn back now.

“Once you get away from Gaspard’s chevaliers, tell Cassandra and Solas to head for the servants’ quarters--the door will be unlocked, Cole and I will be waiting,” Asha says as she takes a step down, hiking her skirts and wondering just how careful she will need to be-- just what, or who, she might find in there. “And find Iron Bull. He’s probably with Dorian; tell him to stay in the ballroom with Vivienne. My absence will be noticed, but his presence buys us time.”

“Of course,” Cullen says, his mind racing despite the evenness of his tone. He watches her turn away and descend the stairs, gaze lingering on her small frame, her stiff back--no familiar staff resting upon it, no weapon with which she can defend herself. The gossamer fabric of her skirts whispers against the marble floor, and anxiety jerks at his gut, makes his stomach lurch.

 _‘She will be fine,’_ he tells himself for what feels like the umpteenth time.

It has never been easy, watching her go into battle. Not at the beginning, when they hadn’t been anything more than tentative friends. Not a few months ago, when he’d realized the depth of his feelings for her. And certainly not now, when he cannot shake the feeling that something dangerous waits in the servants’ quarters for her--the woman he _loves_ \--and she is walking towards it with nothing more than silk brocade and glass jewelry for protection.

 _‘And though I bear scars beyond counting,’_ Cullen thinks--the Canticle of Trials, painfully familiar--as he watches Asha disappear around the corner at the foot of the stairs. _‘Nothing can break me except your absence.’_

But his mind stills, something close enough to resolution settling in his bones even as he turns and makes his way back to the vestibule to carry out his Inquisitor’s orders--to repay the chevaliers with his account of Haven’s destruction, and then to the ballroom in search of Asha’s companions. He knows her. She is fearsome when crossed, a force of nature with lightning in her eyes and fire in her heart. It is one of the many reasons that he loves her.

Even the thought that always runs parallel to his private insistence that she will be fine--that Asha has told him that before and nearly met her end more than once--cannot break the warmth which follows at that.

 _‘I love her,’_ he thinks. _‘She will be fine,’_ he thinks again, and this time, his belief doesn’t waver.

 

XXX

 

There is no one word for what rolls through her, resonant as thunder, when Asha slips into the cramped entry hall to the servants’ quarters, leaving the door unlocked behind her.

The elves’ bodies are laid in a neat row against the far wall, arms crossed over their chests and eyes closed. If not for the blood and gore staining their servant attire, they might only have appeared to be sleeping.

But they are dead--murdered--and the floor is, in fact, red. Something gnarled and hideous sinks unforgiving claws into the pit of her stomach, wrenching. Cole is crouched against the far wall, owlish eyes on her.

“You are angry,” he says as Asha carefully steps around a large smear of blood on the tiles. He is right, but she feels more than just that. He watches her solemnly, his gaze ethereal and too perceptive to be natural. “They were dead before you got here.” He looks away, pain flickering in his expression. “I wanted to help them, too.”

“I know, Cole,” Asha whispers, voice rough. She breathes in, long and slow through her nose. The coppery, cloying scent of too much blood thickens in her nostrils, and her silken garb feels more like a trap than walking into this restricted section of the palace does. Her jaw grinds.

 _‘How could Briala have allowed this to happen?’_ she thinks, perhaps unfairly. She hasn’t even met the ambassador yet, and from the whispered gossip she’s caught snatches of around the palace, she has no doubt endured just as much scorn this night as Asha. But even so, the white-hot burn of fury and disgust at the sight of the mangled servants’ bodies doesn’t abate.

They had asked Briala for help, and their pleas had gone unanswered for whatever reason. Briala is not here, but she is. Following a lead. Though Asha would consider these many deaths evidence enough to damn Briala for whatever her role is in tonight’s masquerade--for not protecting her people--she knows that Celene will not care. The Empress is not concerned with the fate of the elves, not if it doesn’t benefit her.

As for Gaspard, though he might believe Briala to be behind the conspiracy to assassinate Celene, Asha is not so sure. He is clearly untrustworthy. But despite hard evidence that he is clearly planning to remove the empress from her throne by force, she is not so sure that force involves welcoming Tevinter agents into the Winter Palace’s gilded halls either.

Nastily, she thinks that Gaspard is not cunning enough to orchestrate that, despite the fact that his blood claim to the throne and his proximity to Celene would make it easy to carry out. If it weren’t for her presence, that is.

After a long silence, Asha glances at Cole and finds him watching her once more. “What do you think of Gaspard?” she asks.

Cole shakes his head. “I don’t like him,” is his soft reply. Asha can’t help but smile faintly at the pure honesty of it.

“Neither do I,” she murmurs, and then she turns at the sound of the door creaking open. Solas slips through without a whisper of sound, but Cassandra’s footfalls are heavy behind him as she follows. They both pause at the sight of the carnage that had befallen the servants, Cassandra’s pulse jumping angrily in her throat and Solas examining the scene with an expression that is more calculating than sorrowful.

“What happened?” Cassandra asks after a tense moment.

“Gaspard is planning a coup,” Asha replies. “Tonight. I found evidence.”

Cassandra frowns deeply. “I meant--” she begins, the words dying in her throat as she gestures to the bloody hall.

Asha shakes her head. “That is what we are here to find out.” She turns, moving to stand by Cole’s side, carefully avoiding any wet patches on the floor. “I assume this is tied to the planned assassination.” She glances over her shoulder at Cassandra. “Though whether it’s Gaspard’s doing remains to be seen.”

“But you say he is planning a coup.”

“I found an order addressed to one of his men to move his chevaliers into the palace,” Asha says. “No mention of Corypheus, no mention of Tevinter at all.” She snorts, the sound mirthless. “It could simply be bad timing--though really, the only one I know with worse timing than that is me,” she adds, waving her marked hand. The Anchor’s light flickers dimly on her palm, dormant.

“And you believe that?” Cassandra asks flatly.

“I don’t have enough proof to believe anything else--you know as well as I do that whether or not the Empress listens to me tonight will be decided solely by how much good will we can cultivate before the attack and how well I can prove who in the Winter Palace is orchestrating it,” Asha snaps. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“What proof can be found here?” Solas asks quietly. His voice is perfectly even, and a bit of the tension melts from her rigid shoulders.

“I’m not sure, but I was pointed in this direction. And if the bodies are anything to go by, we’re on the right path--but we don’t have much time before the Empress notices that we’re missing. Cole,” Asha says, extending her hand to him. She opens her fingers and reveals the little halla figurine nestled in her palm. “Do you recognize this? The grooves on the base--”

“A key,” he breathes, gingerly taking it from her and pocketing it. He nods and says, “She doesn’t want us to see what’s behind the door.”

“Find the door,” Asha orders gently. “Once we’re done here. For now, we are short on time--let’s go.”

“Wait!” Cassandra hisses, striding forward and clamping a gauntleted hand heavily down on her arm. She shakes her head and says, “These servants were--were brutally murdered, Inquisitor; you should not be here.”

“It is unwise,” Solas agrees, though he sounds matter-of-fact rather than protesting.

“I can protect myself just fine even without a staff, Cassandra; you know that,” Asha replies smoothly. She glances down at Cassandra’s hip, where an inconspicuous, unornamented sword rests in a sheath that matches the design of her armored corset. Empress Celene’s boldness in allowing Gaspard and other publically welcome chevaliers into the Winter Palace without seizing their weapons has given the Inquisition the same privilege, though Cassandra is the only one taking advantage of it. “And I know that blade you’re carrying is not blunted.” Bright spots of color burst high on Cassandra’s cheeks, and Asha’s voice softens just the slightest bit when she adds, “You have never been able to keep me out of trouble before, ma’iovro. You won’t start now. I need to know what is happening here. If you’re that worried, then protect me.”

Solas chuckles softly at Asha’s perfectly no-nonsense tone, and Cassandra huffs and releases her. “Yes, Inquisitor,” she says mulishly, and Asha can’t keep the faint smile off of her face.

A barrier rippling over her form, Asha takes stock of her surroundings once more. Ahead, an archway leads to the kitchens, the marble floor stained crimson there as well. To one side, there is a sealed door, and to the other, an entryway into what looks like the Winter Palace’s royal gardens. Asha points to the door. “What’s behind there, Cole?”

Cole shakes his head. “They died in their beds, but it wasn’t peaceful. There was no one around to hear them scream.”

Asha draws in a shaky breath and strides towards the gardens without looking back. “Come,” she orders, ears twitching at the crackle of Solas’ magic filling the air and the sound of Cassandra unsheathing her sword. Cole is beside her, his steps making no noise, a short blade in each bloodied hand.

The scent of blood fades when they pass through a vine-wrapped archway, the air perfumed with the fragrance of winter roses in full bloom. It’s a short drop into the gardens; Asha gathers her skirts and leaps down, grateful for the freedom of movement that Orlesian fashion would never have allowed her. Her mind turns away quickly from those thoughts, however, when her gaze lands on a prone figure in front of an inactive fountain.

Another body, though rather out of place as far as the night’s corpses go. “This is no servant,” Asha murmurs as she approaches for a closer look. She avoids the blood pooled beneath the corpse, their silk formalwear stained a deep crimson; a dagger with an elaborately decorated hilt protrudes from his back.

“That man is an emissary of the Council of Heralds,” Solas says; at Asha’s questioning glance, he continues, “I overheard a vassal complaining about being left to convey Gaspard’s death threats to their members earlier in the night.”

“This is more than a mere threat,” Cassandra says, disgusted, gesturing to the body. “And that dagger bears the crest of the Chalons family.”

Asha shoots to her feet, pulse jumping in her throat as a memory flashes through her mind. Her breath catches. “In the courtyard, I noticed Gaspard wearing a sheath with no dagger inside of it,” she says, motioning for Cole to take the weapon--the next piece of evidence. It seems that there is no end to the hole that Gaspard has dug himself into. “He must think quite highly of himself to not even bother covering his--”

A shriek rings out from the opposite end of the garden, a cry so terrible and fearful that it immediately raises all the fine hairs on the nape of Asha’s neck. She turns, and a servant emerges from another nearby arbor, throat raw from running and screaming. There is only enough time to lock eyes with the girl before another figure surges forward with lightning speed. A flash of white and silver, and then the squelch of flesh being torn open and blood spraying onto the stone path sounds unnaturally loud in the sudden absence of the servant’s cries.

Asha snarls and slashes the air with her bare hand; a pillar of flame rises from the ground beneath the attacker-- _’The Tevinter agent,’_ she thinks, teeth bared--

But the puff of smoke that billows from the scorched earth does not fit with a charred body, and all that remains is a black mark upon the stone. Asha grits her teeth. “Where?!”

“There!” Solas cries, and Asha follows the line of his finger, pointed at a far balcony where another cloud of smoke forms and a figure drops from within.

Streaks of scarlet boldly line the eyes and mouth of the stranger--the murderer. A harlequin, Asha realizes, their clownish appearance made horrifying by the grin painted onto their face and the blood spattered upon their snow-white armor. They depart with a mocking wave, slipping into the palace.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra shouts, and Asha turns back in time for a flash of flame to nearly blind her; her barrier absorbs the magical blow, exploding into wild magic that sends frost crackling across the grass and the pavement beneath her feet. Someone else is shouting--the enemy, a mage emerging from the side path with two swordsman following. Asha recognizes the Tevene language even if she doesn’t understand it.

She slams another barrier down upon herself and orders, “Kill the Venatori agents!” Her blood pounds, rushing through her veins with lightning and fury for all of the servants they’ve sacrificed in the name of their own bloody game.

Despite the fact that Asha can fight well enough without need of a staff, the truth is that her magic is far more unstable without a weapon to channel it through. As Cole engages the Venatori mage and Cassandra surges forward to challenge the swordsmen, she lets herself release the tempest that has been raging within her body ever since she set foot on the palace grounds, leaving Solas to manage the barriers.

It starts with a crackle in the air, the sharp scent of a coming storm stinging her nostrils. Fire is too volatile without a staff, and concentrated frost requires too much time and precision, but the storm will always come easily when called. It is harder to tame, now, but when the boom of thunder and the crash of lightning rings out, it strikes without mercy--and that is what she wants.

Asha’s eyes flash dangerously as a bolt surges down from the sky, paralyzing the mage long enough for Cole to open his throat with a quick slash. Merciless--that is what she wants to be. For the dead servants, for the living ones who scurry around corners and through shadows to remain unseen and unheard, for the ashes and charred bones in Halamshiral’s slums. For herself, shaking with the force of her concealed anger, for her hatred.

For the secret desire that flickers in her heart like a preserved flame, to just let Celene die. To let Orlais crumble, to tear it apart brick by brick and rebuild it for the people. Her people. The ground trembles under the force of another lightning strike, the air singing with electricity.

 _‘If only,’_ Asha thinks, gathering the thought in her hands and locking it back away, burying it deep. It isn’t right. She hadn’t come here for that. She’d come to ensure stability in Orlais, even if only until Corypheus is dealt with once and for all. Even if the thought leaves the bitterest taste in her mouth.

There is a flash of movement in the corner of her eye; Asha glances over and spots one of the swordsmen whirling, tearing away from Cassandra and leaving his partner to deal with her as he charges for Asha. Behind her, she hears Solas draw in a sharp breath, hears the high whine of his magic barrier being fortified. She gestures for him to wait, feels her own magic spike from its wellspring within her and readies a pulse of energy to knock the enemy back like a ragdoll, but--

A high whistle cuts through the night air and the sounds of battle, and a moment later, an arrow bursts through the unguarded flesh of the swordsman’s neck before he can get close enough. Air and blood escapes from his mouth and ruined throat in a wet gurgle, the same moment that Cassandra fells her own opponent and Cole vanishes and reappears in a puff of dark smoke behind his, both daggers embedded in the Venatori agent’s spine.

“Hah!” crows a familiar voice; Asha smiles, breathless, and turns towards the sound. “Caught him with his breeches down!” On another nearby balcony, a foot perched on the balustrade and her pale longbow held in one hand, Sera grins down at them all. Her eyes glow, winking like a cat’s in the night. She points at Asha and then crouches for a moment; when she rises, she lobs something down like a spear and shouts, “Catch!”

Asha huffs a startled laugh, snatching her staff out of midair and feeling the magic in her blood surge powerfully in response to its familiar heft in her hand. “How did you know to find us here?” she asks, watching Sera scramble down the side of the balcony, tearing up vines on her way down with too little care to make it seem accidental.

Sera hits the ground with a soft thump and skips over to them, saluting Cassandra, pulling a face at Solas, and ignoring Cole entirely. “Didn’t!” she answers, kicking the head of one of the fallen enemies with relish. “Blackwall got me into the palace with some of Cully-Wully’s men, but I broke off and followed the little people. Thought _maybe_ I'd find you, too.” Her expression hardens, eyes gone flinty. “Not fast enough, piss on it. S’not looking good here.”

“The servants’ quarters are worse,” Asha confesses solemnly, and Sera scowls.

“Arsebiscuits,” she says, and then she spits on one of the bodies. Cassandra frowns, but nobody admonishes her. Sera looks back to Asha, gaze sweeping the length of her body. She lets out another whistle, low and long, and then grins. “Not a pretty little hair out of place, huh, your Inquisitorial Lady-Highness? Sure you should be down here?”

Asha arches a brow. “Are you worried about my appearance, Sera?” she teases, and she receives an inelegant snort in response.

“Am _not._ Load of elfy shite.”

“She’s worried you’ll get hurt; you’re not wearing any armor,” Cole says quietly from over her shoulder.

Sera scowls at him, snarling, “Shut it! Nobody asked you.” Her face reddens tellingly.

“Sera,” Asha says, gently chiding. Sera scoffs and crosses her arms like a petulant child, but Asha shakes her head. “Not now. And I’ll be fine.”

“I know that,” she mumbles, though she sounds unconvinced.

Asha glances at the body of the murdered servant; her stomach turns as frost crackles up the branches on her staff. She gestures towards the body and waits for anger to pass over Sera’s face like a stormcloud before she says, softly, “She was trying to escape. There might be others somewhere here, trapped and hiding. I want you to stay here just in case, see if you can find them.”

Sera’s brows knit. “But--”

“The little people need you,” Asha says before she can fully protest, knowing that even she can’t argue that. She glances at the rest of her party and adds, “And we need to find that harlequin.”

“Could that be the one we have been looking for?” Cassandra asks, her voice steel-edged. “The assassin?”

“It’s possible,” Asha says, not wanting to think about how the killer they’ve been hunting for might well have been doing hunting of their own this night, blood sport to bide their time until they strike at the ultimate target--the empress.

Sera huffs and nods, agreeing at last. She jerks a finger towards the balcony that the harlequin disappeared to and says, “If you’re getting up there, you need to go through there.” She gestures to the path on the opposite end of the courtyard. “That’s the Grand Apartments; stupid name, but it’s where that _thing_ went.” Her eyes flash. “Stick ‘im good, Inky. These people didn’t _do_ anything, and they all got cut to bits anyway.”

Asha briefly clasps Sera’s hand in her own, fingers trembling. “I will,” she promises. “They’ll answer for this. All of it. You stay safe, alright?”

Sera grins, letting go of her and nocking an arrow. “Safe’s boring,” she says, and then she’s off running through the maze of trellises without another word.

 

XXX

 

By the time they find the harlequin, sitting cross-legged at the end of a long hall and still wearing an unsettling grin, Asha is certain that they have the assassin cornered. “Engage the Venatori; the assassin is mine!” she orders, whirling her staff. The air around her shimmers and ripples as her magic pulses through her veins, and in a breath, she phases from one end of the hall to the other, her golden blade jabbed through nothing but a cloud of dark smoke.

A feral snarl tears from her throat; the soft thump of someone landing behind her makes her ears twitch, and she spins. Stalagmites of frost burst from the tiles, and she glances up just in time to see the harlequin leap from danger, blood-stained blades twirling in their hands. They vanish again, and Asha slams the head of her staff against the ground, calling forth sparks in the air surrounding her that will paralyze any who come close.

The dance begins.

Through the battle that rages around them, Asha and the harlequin constantly flicker in and out of existence. A puff of smoke appears nearby, where Cassandra engages two swordsmen with her sword and a looted shield from their fallen brethren. Asha is there in the next moment, an inferno rising from the spot where the harlequin remains no longer. They bait her, appearing next by Solas, his back turned while he is locked in combat with another Venatori mage.

Asha Fade steps again, propelled by her magic, passing through their body just as they raise their blade. The harlequin grunts, chilled by a burst of frost, their arm raised. Asha swings her own blade up, but they tear themselves away from the blow just in time. Teeth gritted, they vanish again, and Asha does the same.

Asha scowls when she reappears, knowing she is being toyed with. It benefits the harlequin to bait her and tire her out, to force her to pull from her pool of mana again and again until her magic eventually fails her, until she makes a wrong move and stumbles. But in between her flickering around the hall, she studies the others--the fights. She watches for Cole, for Cassandra, for Solas, ready to appear wherever the harlequin does. But she doesn’t try to strike at them. Instead, she strikes at the foes facing her companions, and they fall one by one, until the harlequin has no more allies.

The dance ends. With a final Fade step, Asha phases to the center of the hall, avoiding the blood splattered on the tiles.

And then she drops her barrier.

When the harlequin takes the bait, hitting the ground behind her with another soft thump, Asha frowns. A concussive blast of energy pulses from her before the harlequin can even move; Asha’s ears twitch at their cry of shock as they are jolted back, tumbling across the marble. In the next breath, Cassandra and Solas are by her side, and Cole vanishes in a puff of smoke, reappearing somewhere behind her.

Another cry rings out and then abruptly chokes off with a wet gurgle. Asha sighs, shaking her head, fingers tightening almost painfully around her staff.

“That wasn’t the assassin,” she mutters angrily. Cassandra blinks at her.

“Are you so certain?”

Asha frowns at her, listening with half an ear as Cole’s soft footsteps sound behind her. His boots squelch, soles soaked in blood. “If your job was to assassinate the most important figure in Orlais, would you be so foolish as to still engage a group of enemies once your allies were dead?”

Cassandra glances somewhere over her shoulder, towards the harlequin’s corpse. She purses her lips. “I see.”

“Asha,” Cole breathes suddenly, his voice urgent. He raises a hand, pointing towards the end of the hall. “There.”

Asha turns to look, just in time to see a Venatori swordsman stagger to his feet and try to stumble away. “Always make sure they’re dead,” she huffs, mouth twisting as she raises her staff. The air crackles, but a dagger comes whizzing forward just as the swordsman turns the corner. It embeds itself firmly through the gap in their helm, striking them dead where they stand.

Asha freezes, a barrier rippling around herself and her companions. And then, a lone woman steps into view.

She moves gracefully and silently, not bothering to retrieve her weapon. Though not garbed like a servant, her forest-green dress is nowhere near as elaborate as the other guests of the Empress. Wisps of dark curls escape from the edges of her headwrap, and she watches Asha with large, solemn eyes as she approaches. Asha releases the breath she had been holding, and with it, her barrier.

“Ambassador Briala,” she says, inclining her head in greeting.

With a quirk of her lips, Briala reaches a thin-boned hand up and removes her plain silver mask, revealing a smattering of freckles across her brown skin. “Fancy meeting you here, Inquisitor Lavellan,” she murmurs. Her voice is accented, though different from the Orlesian nobility. Sharper. “Shouldn’t you be dancing? What _will_ the nobility say?”

Rather than answer, Asha glances towards her companions. “Return to the ball,” she says, and Cassandra opens her mouth to protest. Asha cuts her off with a gentle wave of her hand, refusing to reveal how urgent she really feels. To speak openly with Briala, she will need to be alone; her supposed trust is a card that must be played, regardless of the potential danger. “Go on. I will return shortly.”

Briala watches with an enigmatic smile as they reluctantly obey, filing past her. Asha studies her expression, finding no contempt in the way that she meets their suspicious gazes. Rather, she seems amused by them. When they are alone, Briala gestures towards the balcony, a question in her gaze. Asha follows, noting the way that the other woman eyes her staff with interest.

“You’ve cleaned this place out,” she remarks. “It will take them a month to get all the Tevinter blood off the marble.”

Asha says nothing in response, the flattery going ignored. She waits, watching as Briala braces a hand against the railing, glancing into the gardens below them.

Briala turns when she doesn’t speak, her mysterious little smile remaining in place. Her gaze flicks once more towards Asha’s staff. “I came down to save or avenge my missing people,” she says. She quirks a brow. “But you’ve beaten me to it. You are… a powerful woman, it seems.”

“Does it?”

Briala laughs at that, gesturing to her. “If there is another you know who can cut down dozens of Venatori while wearing a gown and glass and remain untouched, I have yet to meet her.” Her eyes narrow, gaze calculating. “So. The Council of Heralds’ emissary in the courtyard… That’s not your work, is it?”

Asha cocks her head, expression impassive. She decides that she wants to hear Briala draw her own conclusions. “He was dead when I arrived.”

Briala nods, accepting the vague answer as though she knew it would come. “I expected as much,” she sighs. “You may have arrived with the Grand Duke, but you don’t seem to be doing his dirty work.” Asha hardly has a moment to wonder if Briala truly believes Gaspard to be responsible, or if it is her own attempt to establish trust between them, when she continues, “I knew he was smuggling in chevaliers, but killing a Council emissary? Bringing Tevinter agents into the palace?” She scoffs, disgusted. “Desperate acts. Gaspard must be planning to strike tonight.”

Asha doesn’t react, though her pulse jumps. _‘So she knew,’_ she thinks, though she remains silent about the proof of Gaspard’s planned coup that she had discovered earlier. She cannot trust Briala. Not yet. “The empress should be warned,” is all she says, interested to see how Briala will take the mention of Celene. The rumors that Briala is the woman’s jilted lover float in the back of her mind, and she wonders which parts of them are true.

Briala shrugs. “You can try to warn her,” she says nonchalantly. “She won’t believe anything from me.”

Slowly, Asha nods. “I thought not.” A beat passes. “From the look of Halamshiral’s slums, it seems the lioness of Orlais cares nothing for the thoughts of rabbits.”

There is just enough bitterness in her tone for something to flicker in Briala’s eyes. Her posture straightens, ever so slightly, and her fingers tighten around her mask. “It seems I misjudged you, Inquisitor,” she says suddenly. “You might just be an ally worth having.”

Asha’s mouth quirks at the corners. “Is that why this is the first time we’ve met all night?” she asks lightly.

To her surprise, Briala smiles--a genuine expression, a flash of brightness across her face. “You can hardly blame me for being careful. In the Winter Palace, we must be warier than most.”

“That is certainly true,” Asha replies. “Which is why it surprises me that although you say Gaspard is smuggling in chevaliers, you make no mention of my own men infiltrating the palace.” Briala’s expression falters for a moment. “You know they are here,” Asha presses her.

Silence stretches between them for a few seconds. And then, Briala nods. “I do,” she admits. “And I have not interfered with them.”

A cool evening breeze blows through, gently ruffling Asha’s curls. The glass beads in her hair quietly chime. “Why?”

If Briala is surprised or unsettled by Asha’s blunt question, she does not show it. Instead, she puts her mask back on, fingers deftly arranging it to sit perfectly against her skin. “It occurs to me that you could accomplish a great deal with an army of Elven spies at your disposal, Inquisitor. A loyal army, who surely know who is responsible for coming to their aid when I could not. You should think about it.”

 _‘Loyal to you,’_ Asha thinks. But she fixes a false smile to her face, running her thumb over the ridges on her staff. “An alliance that could bring Orlais to its knees, all things considered.”

Briala’s eyes positively light up. “We can help each other, Inquisitor,” she says, almost coaxing. She is just as knowledgable when it comes to the Game, well aware of which cards to play. “We are both outsiders here, after all.” She inclines her head. “And I know which way the wind is blowing. I’d bet coin that you’ll be part of the peace talks before the night is over.” She pauses for a moment, and then she smirks. “Celene would too, no? Though I’m sure she’s offered something just as powerful as money to entice you to be on her side.”

Asha sees an opening and decides to take it. “Celene is cunning; I’m sure she gave you more than money, to convince you that she was worthy of being by your side.”

Briala stiffens, breath sticking sharply in her throat. Her gaze grows cold, and she turns her back on Asha. A soft huff of laughter escapes her, the sound rueful. “I would say that love is a powerful incentive, capable of blinding anyone, but I would be a fool to claim she ever loved me,” she says flatly. She glances over her shoulder then. “But I learn from my mistakes, Inquisitor.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Asha replies smoothly, and the tension melts from Briala’s shoulders.

Her voice is more even when she says, “In any case, you have time to come to a decision before the negotiations commence. I’m sure we will see each other again then.” She smiles, edging towards a gap in the balustrade. “And if you happen to lean a little bit our way? It could prove advantageous to us both. Just a thought.”

Asha watches her slip through the gap and drop down into the gardens, out of sight. _‘Just a thought_ ,’ her mind echoes, and then she replays every moment of their brief meeting in her mind’s eye.

Briala, just like Celene and Gaspard--and herself, really--is out to achieve her desired outcome in the impending talks. And much like the others, Asha suspects that Briala is uninterested in compromise. All or nothing, with the Inquisition either on her side or not. That much is clear.

Briala is not Tevinter’s ally. That much is also clear. And yet, Asha remains uncertain of whether she can call Briala her own ally. But all the way through the Grand Apartments, through the Winter Palace gardens and the bloody servants’ quarters, the ambassador’s words remain in her mind.

_“It occurs to me that you could accomplish a great deal with an army of Elven spies at your disposal, Inquisitor.”_

Asha sighs. _‘I could,’_ she thinks, with every bit of the yearning that she feels at the thought of what Halamshiral would look like if it still belonged to the People. Her people. _‘I could.’_

But when she returns to the Hall of Heroes and finds her companions waiting for her--when Cassandra’s face lights up with relief at the sight of her unharmed, when Solas smiles, and when Cole shows her an elven locket that he’d found in Celene’s vault--she knows that she won’t.

She could. But she won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This arc wraps up in two chapters, I think. Probably. Jesus! This thing is almost 30 chapters, what the fuck.
> 
> Up next: the duchess.


	30. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought dangerous machinations were the national sport in Orlais,” Asha breathes darkly, pressing her hand flat against the small of Florianne’s back. Trapping the other woman against her body as they move, as the pace quickens while the music crescendos. A flicker of unease passes briefly through Florianne’s gaze, and the smile that Asha gives her is anything but kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost 6 months and thirty chapters ago, I started writing this fic because I was depressed as fuck over hubs' deployment and was filled with an almost desperate inspiration to write what I felt could be a great love story. Thirty chapters later, this has become so much more than I ever thought possible, and I cannot even begin to express how much love I have for this story, and for you, dear readers.
> 
> (Here's to thirty more chapters...? Probably not, but there's still so much more to explore, both with Asha and their relationship. :D)
> 
> And this chapter's huge. And exciting! I think! Everything happens so much. I hope y'all are enjoying the ride.

_"I'd love to change the world,_  
_but I don't know what to do._  
_So I'll leave it up to you."_  
**\-- 'I'd Love to Change the World' by Jetta**

* * *

 

“Why am I not at all surprised that you want to see me now?”

Florianne de Chalons gives her a sly, thin-lipped smile; her gaze is as pale as the rest of her, sharp beneath the delicate moth-wing mask she wears. “This is Orlais, Inquisitor. Things rarely happen by accident.”

Asha smiles back, catching the slight edge in her voice. Feeling it in the marrow of her bones--the prickling chill of the other woman's dissatisfaction. Her gaze slides across the ballroom for a moment, searching; across the way, she sees Bull’s towering form, easily the most striking figure out of all of them.

As though he can feel her gaze, he turns, the golden cuffs around his horns glinting in the light. He spots her instantly, grinning. He raises a hand--Asha can almost hear the group of nobles surrounding him sigh at the way the muscles flex, the crimson sashes knotted against them standing out in sharp relief from his skin--and gives her a thumbs up. He turns to the side, and in his shadow, she finds Dorian and Cullen with their heads bowed together in quiet discussion, entirely ignored by the crowd.

Asha’s smile melts into one of warm approval before she looks back to Florianne.

She adjusts the hem of one diaphanous sleeve, seemingly unbothered by Asha’s distraction. “I believe tonight that you and I are concerned by the actions of…” A beat passes. Asha doesn’t react. “A certain person.” Florianne leans in, and the cloying scent of roses reaches her--the perfume of the season in Orlais, familiar on every noblewoman. Strong enough to give Asha a headache. But she also catches the scent of something darker, almost resinous, almost familiar. She can’t place the scent. “Come,” the grand duchess says. “Dance with me. Spies will not hear us on the dance floor.”

 _‘Fenedhis,’_ Asha thinks, resisting the urge to grind her teeth. Her back feels naked; she misses the weight of her staff, left behind with Cole in the servants’ quarters. She can think of no place she will be more on display than in the middle of the dance floor, and her irritation rises swiftly.

Even so, this is her duty. Another smaller battle that must be won.

She extends her arm. “Very well,” she replies, loud enough that nearby heads turn. “Shall we dance, Your Grace?”

Florianne’s smile is almost predatory. Long, thin fingers close tightly around her wrist, crystals jingling at the touch. Her skin is cold. “I’d be delighted,” she purrs.

The minstrels standing on the landing that surveys the dance floor begin to play the next song, the strains of _Empress of Fire_ far grander here than when Asha has heard them in Skyhold’s tavern, idly plucked by Maryden from her lute. For a moment, she aches for home. But in the next, she and Florianne are taking their positions, and she hears Vivienne’s sharp voice echoing in her head.

 _‘Back straight. Neck stiff. Your_ face _, Inquisitor.’_

Asha’s mask is firmly in place, underneath glass and over the soft heart of her. Florianne’s first thinly-veiled jab glances off, harmless.

“Have the Dalish gained a sudden passion for politics? What do _you_ know of our civil war?”

“I assure you, the effects of this war reach far beyond the borders of the Orlesian Empire,” she says easily, more mindful of her steps than anything. One foot in front of the other, long strides that expose her legs through the part of her skirts as they move. She glances up towards the people who crowd the edges of the ballroom to look down and observe her like a commodity--a jewel beetle pinned under a magnifying glass, green and gold.

There is a flash of movement above, and then Dorian is there, none-too-gently nudging aside nobles to lean over the railing. His formal robes billow about him, pure black cut with gold cloth in the style of his homeland. He raises a full glass in one hand, toasting her, grinning. The many rings on his fingers glimmer in the light.

Asha’s heartbeat eases some, from fierce pounding to a steadier rhythm in her ears, underneath the music. She is not alone here.

“Perhaps it does,” Florianne says beside her, regaining her attention. She sniffs. “I should not be surprised to find the Empire is the center of everyone’s world.”

Asha doesn’t roll her eyes; she glances back up instead, finds Dorian again. _“Don’t trip,"_ he mouths.

 _‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’_ she thinks, lips quirking at the corners. Dorian turns, reaching for someone behind him; the crowd shifts again, and then Cullen is at his shoulder. His hand reaches for the balustrade, wrapping around the edge as he watches.

Despite the distance, Asha can see his eyes perfectly in her mind, burnished gold in the glow of the ballroom, softening in relief to find her whole and well. Her traitorous heart throbs heavily, once, and then speeds back up.

_‘My love.’_

“It took great effort to arrange tonight’s negotiations,” Florianne whispers beside her; Asha turns her head and meets her pale gaze. “Yet one party would use this occasion for blackest treason. The security of the Empire is at stake tonight. Neither one of us wishes to see it fall.”

They turn as one, arms sweeping out as they bow low. Asha eyes the glittering hem of her skirts just before she rises; at the very edge, there is a deep crimson speck among the green. Barely noticeable. She meets Florianne’s gaze once more. “Do we both want that, Lady Florianne?” she murmurs as she reaches out. Their palms touch. Asha nearly flinches.

_‘Creators, she’s cold.’_

“I hope we are of one mind on this,” Florianne says gravely, following her lead. Asha’s ears twitch, just barely; in this, she sounds sincere.

They circle each other, and Asha watches her twirl, fitting herself neatly at Florianne’s back. Her fingers curve over the swell of her hip, gathering the silk. “In times like these, it’s hard to tell friend from foe,” she says. Experimentally, her fingers tighten. Florianne stiffens, and she smiles darkly. Intimidation is a skill she knows well. “Is it not, Your Grace?”

“I know you arrived here as a guest of my brother, Gaspard,” Florianne says, and though she sounds as if she is merely making easy conversation, the pitch of her voice has risen. Over her words, the music swells as she turns in Asha’s arms, and they begin to waltz around the floor. “And you have been _everywhere_ in the palace.”

Asha quirks a brow, saying nothing, following the rhythm of the music and wondering why Florianne’s skin is so chilled.

“You are a curiosity to many, Inquisitor Lavellan,” Florianne breathes, leaning in. Though she stands taller than Asha, she knows how to make herself seem small and light in the dance, allowing herself to be turned this way and that. A puppet to Asha’s movements--a calculated decision. One misstep, and the court will know that Asha is entirely at fault. “And a matter of concern to some.”

 _‘You did your best to make sure I wasn’t here,’_ Asha thinks, recalling how Florianne had been surprised to see her arrive on Gaspard’s arm. Before his formal invitation, Josephine had grown increasingly harried, exhausting one avenue after another in pursuit of their goal: a way into the palace. Florianne had been the one to arrange the party, and she had been the one to dismiss the Inquisition’s official request to be present.

“Am I the curiosity or the concern to you, Your Grace?”

Florianne smiles knowingly. “A little of both, actually,” she says. “This evening is of great importance, Inquisitor. I wonder what role you will play in it.”

All around them, the other dancers whirl about the floor, a blur of vibrant silks and glittering masks. The excited murmurs of those watching from the gallery press in, a constant hum underneath the music. Asha does not need to look up again to know that their eyes are on her, on the way that she moves with Florianne in her arms, skirts sweeping as they turn. The other dancers give them a wide berth.

Florianne’s voice is sharper when she speaks again, her fingers tightening around Asha's. “Do you even yet know who is friend and who is foe?” she hisses. “Who in the court can be trusted?”

 _‘Not you,’_ sits heavily on Asha’s tongue.

But she knows better. “If I have learned anything, Your Grace,” Asha murmurs, moving into the next steps fluidly--barely an arm’s length away from Florianne as they circle each other, right hand at her hip and the fingers of her left barely brushing against hers. The Anchor flickers as their eyes remain locked, as Florianne twirls and returns to the cradle of Asha’s arms. “It is to put my trust in no one.”

“In the Winter Palace, everyone is alone,” Florianne says softly, looking smug. As if on cue, the other couples begin to leave the floor until the dance is theirs entirely. Asha wonders if she is being threatened, or if everyone is really just keen to watch the pair of them. “It cannot have escaped your notice that certain parties are engaged in… dangerous machinations tonight.”

 _‘Celene, Gaspard, Briala,’_ Asha thinks, guiding them to the center of the floor; if the nobility wants to gawk, then she can give them a show. She doesn’t fear their stares, doesn’t fear the way they hungrily watch for her to falter, to stumble. She doesn’t fear the players she has just named in her mind, and she doesn’t fear the way that Florianne watches her through narrowed eyes--like a predator eyeing prey. _‘You.’_

“I thought dangerous machinations were the national sport in Orlais,” Asha breathes darkly, pressing her hand flat against the small of Florianne’s back. Trapping the other woman against her body as they move, as the pace quickens while the music crescendos. A flicker of unease passes briefly through Florianne’s gaze, and the smile that Asha gives her is anything but kind.

 _‘You should be afraid of me,’_ she thinks, seizing upon a wicked idea the moment that it forms in her head.

It is nothing for Asha’s leg to press into Florianne’s vast skirts, knocking her foot out from underneath her. She relishes Florianne’s sharp breath, the way that her icy fingers tighten almost painfully on her as Asha catches her, makes the motion look like an elegant dip to end their dance. It would do no good to embarrass Florianne, but the fury in her gaze as Asha pulls her back to her side is most satisfying. She doesn’t like being made to feel foolish, that much is clear.

“You have little time,” she whispers as they slowly begin to make their way forward, the song winding down, Asha’s victory clear. “You must stop Gaspard before he strikes. In the Royal Wing garden, you will find the captain of my brother’s mercenaries--he knows all Gaspard’s secrets. I’m sure you can persuade him to be forthcoming.”

Asha doesn’t bother to disguise her smirk as she leaves Florianne with a polite bow and a curt, “We’ll see what the night has in store, won’t we?” The sound of the court's applause drowns out any response that Florianne might have made.

Josephine is waiting for her at the top of the stairs, as breathless as if she had been the one dancing. “You’ll be the talk of the court for months!” she says, clasping Asha’s hands and leading her into the crowds; they part easily, murmurs of approval filling her ears. “We should take you dancing more often.”

Asha realizes then that her heart is racing, though she feels perfectly steady. She squeezes Josephine’s hands anyway. “The duchess had some very interesting things to say,” she murmurs, scanning the crowd for her companions.

Josephine’s voice loses some of its exuberance. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

Josephine guides her around the ballroom, to a more secluded corner where Leliana and Cullen are already waiting. Leliana is before her in an instant, eyes sparkling. “Were you _dancing_ with Duchess Florianne?”

“Sparring, more like,” Asha can’t help replying.

Josephine releases her with a smile, allowing Cullen to take his place beside her. “More importantly,” he snaps, taking Asha’s hand and tucking it neatly in the crook of his elbow like a proper, and somewhat possessive, gentleman. His gaze roves urgently over her. “What happened in the servants’ quarters? I heard there was fighting.”

“Yes, but I’m fine,” Asha says quickly as Josephine and Leliana’s gazes snap to her and give her the same once-over. Asha can’t help but feel that, where Cullen was searching for signs of injury, they are searching for signs of dishevelment. They find none; her appearance is, miraculously, immaculate.

“I hope you have good news,” Josephine whispers. “It appears the peace talks are crumbling.”

“That doesn’t surprise me; you gave them what we found?” Asha whispers, and Cullen nods. She addresses them all when she says, “The Grand Duchess tried to convince me that Gaspard is the traitor.” A beat passes. “I’m not sure that I believe her.”

“The letter was clear,” Cullen says, frowning at her.

“He’s planning _something_ ,” Asha says. “But an assassination aided by Tevinter? I don’t believe so. I don’t believe he’s that smart, for one thing. He plays the Game but does it recklessly--chevaliers in the palace, signing damning orders by name, acting as if he is too good for tonight’s affair. I’m not surprised that Florianne points the finger at him--he makes it easy.”

Leliana’s eyes narrow. She hums thoughtfully for a moment and then says, “Florianne and her brother are thick as thieves, but she would give him up in an instant to save herself. She might fear that she will be linked to his crimes.”

“And whoever is targeting Celene’s life will have the perfect scapegoat,” Josephine says. "If Gaspard is not the one behind this."

“Then… the attack on the Empress _will_ happen tonight,” Cullen says; his arm is rigid beneath Asha’s touch. Asha glances at him, reading the thought reflected in his eyes before he can say the words, but Josephine shakes her head and speaks first.

“Warning Celene is pointless,” she says. “She needs these talks to succeed, and to flee would admit defeat.”

Leliana’s voice is utterly nonchalant as she smooths her skirts and says, “Then perhaps we should let her die.”

Asha’s heartbeat is thunderous in her ears. She doesn’t even register that her fingers are digging into Cullen’s arm until he winces and shifts, and she releases him like she’s been burned. She takes one slow step towards Leliana, and then another, fingers trembling. “Did you or did you not spend _weeks_ driving me _mad_ so that I might not embarrass myself at court before I could _save Celene’s life_?” she spits.

Leliana gives her a warning look. “Listen to me carefully, Inquisitor,” she starts, and her perfect calmness only serves to make Asha angrier. “What Corypheus wants is chaos. Even with Celene alive, that could still happen. To foil his plan, the empire must remain strong. This evening, _someone_ must emerge victorious.”

“And it doesn’t need to be Celene,” Cullen breathes, catching on to her meaning. “She’s right.”

He flinches when Asha turns her gaze on him. “She’s _what_?”

“Do you realize what you’re suggesting, Leliana?” Josephine says, quickly taking advantage of Asha’s outrage. She looks shaken.

Leliana shrugs. “Sometimes, the best path is not the easy one.”

“You’re asking me to decide what’s best for Orlais,” Asha starts--quietly, careful to keep the fraying threads of her self-control from snapping entirely. It is not easy. “To offer Celene’s head up on a platter, and--”

“You have sacrificed people before in the name of achieving your goals,” Leliana says, and Asha falls silent. She quirks a thin, red brow. “Marian Hawke did not return from Adamant alive because you knew that Warden Stroud needed to survive--for the sake of the Grey Wardens, for the sake of the world the next time a Blight happens. You cannot stop Corypheus without a decision. If you hesitate, all is lost.”

For a long moment, no one says anything. Leliana stares at her expectantly, but Josephine looks on with something akin to horror at what she’s said. Cullen’s eyes are dark with fury, but none of them are as enraged as Asha is. The feeling burns hotly, wicked fire in her veins. She balls her hands into fists to stop the tremor, to stop the heat; her nails dig bloody crescents in the meat of her palms.

“If you ever,” Asha begins, so quietly that they must strain to hear her over the minstrels’ music, “speak without thinking like that again, Leliana, you will regret it.”

Leliana blinks. “I assure you, Inquisitor, that my words were not thoughtless.”

“Just because Divine Justinia encouraged you to bloody your hands to achieve her goals, does not mean I would like to do the same myself--that does _not_ mean that I have ever, or will ever, see people as pawns in a game and enjoy _sacrificing_ them.” Her words are as sharp as a whipcrack, and at the mention of the late Divine, Leliana’s expression goes blank with shock.

“Not even if you could place someone like Briala in power?” she manages after a moment. “A woman who you know would place the well-being of elves higher than anyone else would? Who would never burn and cut them down in the streets?”

“And when the human nobility, with their money and their power and their numbers, come together to slaughter every knife-ear in Orlais in retaliation, what then?” Asha snarls. “When the Gaspards and Celenes of the world unite in favor of cutting down every Briala--every elf who ever wanted better for our people, who dared to rise above their station, what then? When more humans target my clan and I can’t save them, what then? When humans target _me_ , and you lose the only person who can close the rifts all over Thedas, _what then?_

“Did you ever stop to consider that?” Asha adds, voice soft and dangerous. “That I could never place Briala in a position of absolute power without damning every elf in a slum or the wild, without risking everything that we are trying to accomplish? That if I tied her to Celene or Gaspard for the sake of legitimacy, it would make _precious_ little difference? Why do you think Briala has enjoyed watching Celene and Gaspard at each other’s throats, Leliana?” When Leliana says nothing, Asha’s eyes narrow. “I’ve asked you a question; now answer.”

“...Because the chaos benefits her,” Leliana says quietly. Cullen and Josephine watch, looking uncomfortable, saying nothing. Realization slowly dawns in Leliana’s eyes.

“The chaos benefits her,” Asha confirms. “If the humans are at war, nobody is paying as much attention to her. She can do as she likes, if she’s careful. It’s why she knew about Gaspard’s coup and said nothing.” Asha frowns. “She told me it was because Celene wouldn’t believe her warnings, but she’s too cunning to not see the freedom she has to act if Orlais remains unstable.”

Leliana purses her lips, shaking her head. After a long moment, she murmurs, “Forgive me for speaking thoughtlessly, Inquisitor.”

“You weren’t speaking thoughtlessly,” Asha says stiffly. There is no kindness in the words. “You were thinking. Like a human. Or perhaps like an Orlesian, too concerned with what you want to see the bigger picture. How fortunate for us all that I am neither of those things.”

“Asha,” Cullen says quietly, and their gazes snap to him--Leliana’s in surprise over the mild reproach in his tone, and Asha’s in mute disapproval.

But his voice is enough to make her falter, then. To realize that they are still surrounded by throngs of people who would be all too happy to enjoy gossiping about the vicious nature of their conversation. Who might gleefully recount how the Inquisitor took her advisor to task with harsh looks and cutting words, as befitting a far more seasoned player of the Game than she actually is.

They would admire her for it, and the realization makes her stomach turn. She swallows hard, suddenly full of a deep and familiar self-loathing. “Get me access to the Royal Wing,” she says, voice flat. “A lead points in that direction.” She glances at Cullen and says, “And get your soldiers into position. We may need them sooner rather than later.”

Cullen nods. “At once, Inquisitor,” he says, though his expression makes it clear that he does not want to part from her this way--does not want to part at all, really. Not when she is clearly cracking under the stress of this night. She would never be so cold, so nearly cruel to Leliana otherwise. Yet as worried as he is for her, there is nothing more that he can do, and they both know it.

“Mahariel would have done it,” Leliana says when they are alone, Cullen and Josephine both gone to accomplish their respective tasks; Asha blinks, turning slowly to stare at her. Leliana’s gaze is glassy, her voice low and aching. She doesn’t sound accusatory. She sounds almost sad. “Mahariel would have let Celene die and ceded control to Briala. For the People.”

Asha recalls the one time she met Warden-Commander Mahariel, long before she'd been a Grey Warden. They’d been children, Mahariel barely two summers older but somehow seeming far more mature already--the daughter of her clan’s late Keeper, holding a place of honor as such despite no magic in her blood. She’d wanted to be a knight, Asha recalls. An Emerald Knight, a warrior determined to protect her Keeper and her clan even though there were no Emerald Knights. Not since the time when the Dales belonged to the People.

Asha remembers the hunger in her green-eyed gaze when they’d listened to the hahrens repeat the Oath of the Dales. The fervor. The desire to not only never again submit, but to rise up.

Asha knows it well. Just as well as she knows responsibility. Just as well as she knows risk and the danger of putting lives needlessly in harm’s way, of believing that the end justifies the means.

She knows it well, and she'd learned young that she never wanted to be that kind of leader.

“I am not Mahariel.”

Leliana’s gaze wavers, and then breaks. Her smile is brittle. “No, you are not,” she agrees quietly, sounding almost as if she is trying to remind herself of that fact.

Asha hesitates for a moment, and then gently adds, “I am no better or worse.” A beat passes. “I hope not. Not worse.”

Good humor seeps into Leliana’s fragile expression. She huffs a laugh through her nose. “Not worse,” she repeats, again in agreement. She studies Asha for a moment, takes in the falseness of the finery that they’ve put her into for the evening, and the sincerity of her gaze beneath her glittering mask. She reads the remorse in her eyes for her unkind words--though in a way, Leliana had needed to hear them. “Be careful in the Royal Wing, Inquisitor,” she murmurs.

Asha nods. “I will be,” she says. And then, “I will do what’s best for the Inquisition.”

“The Inquisition?” Leliana murmurs, arching a brow. “Not Orlais?”

“In this case, I believe the two are one and the same.” She draws a short, steadying breath. “Orlais needs stability, both for the sake of foiling Corypheus as well as for us to gain a powerful ally. We benefit from a strong Orlesian empire. Whether that stability lasts beyond this war is not up to me.”

Both brows rise high at that. “No matter what you decide, something will be lost as well as gained, Inquisitor. With Celene in power, Orlais will be threatened by the loss of Gaspard’s chevaliers as well as Briala’s rebellion. With Gaspard, you lose the nobility and their coin and still face opposition from Briala. And with Briala…” She shrugs a shoulder. “It’s as you said. You may not like it, but we all must make sacrifices.”

After a long moment, Asha inclines her head. “We will see,” she says, and then she turns away.

She has already made sacrifices, she thinks. Sacrificed her place with her clan to remain with the Inquisition, to lead them--though she’s found great joy in that, a joy that she wouldn’t trade for anything. Sacrificed her true self in the name of the Game tonight, to garner every bit of court approval that she can. She has sacrificed her own selfish desires, let them drop from between her fingers like bits of shattered glass, ground into glittering dust beneath her heels.

She has no desire to sacrifice any more. And neither do Celene, Gaspard, or Briala. They aren’t interested in sacrifices. They want what they want, damn the cost.

But so does she. So Asha decides, with far more ease than it will surely take, that if she cannot--will not--break them, then she will simply have to make them bend.

 

XXX

 

“Are we going to sneak around through the Empress’ unmentionables now?” Varric snickers as the door to the Royal Wing--which he’d picked the lock of with ease--shuts near-soundlessly behind them. Cassandra makes a noise of disgust, and Asha rolls her eyes. “Just how drunk are you, boss?”

“Believe me, if I was drunk, I’d be having a great deal more fun,” she mutters, and Varric laughs. She glances down at him, eyes on the dagger Cole had given him. “Are you any good with that?”

“You wound me.”

“Quite the opposite,” she replies easily. “I'm trying to keep you from getting wounded. You’re not wearing armor.”

“Neither are you.”

“I’ve got my staff,” she says, gesturing with the item in question. “And my barriers.”

“Well then I’ve got your barriers, too,” Varric quips, grinning as he twirls the borrowed dagger.

Asha shakes her head, fighting a smile. “If you’re not careful with that thing, you’re going to hurt your--wait.” She freezes, motioning for her companions to do the same. Cassandra and Varric give her questioning glances, weapons at the ready, but Cole cocks his head to the side, listening. Asha’s ears twitch, and she holds her breath.

The sound is quiet, near undetectable. The Royal Wing is empty, save for them and whatever is making the faint creaking sound that reaches her sensitive ears. Slowly, she creeps forward, down the hall and towards the source of the noise. It is the loudest behind a thick, ornate door. Cole is beside her, and he silently presses a hand against it. She quirks a brow at him, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of halla figurines.

Asha blinks and steps back, watching as Cole runs his hands along the door’s surface and finds the little grooves that fit them neatly. One by one, he places the figurines in their proper spaces and twists them; the creaking has stopped at the sound of mechanisms turning, but Asha knows that whatever lies beyond a door with this many locks must surely be important.

When Cole slides the last figurine into place and twists it, the door unlocks with a soft _snick_. He pushes it open and slips inside; after a moment, Asha readies her staff and follows with the others.

She lets out a sigh of deep disappointment when the sight that greets her is a naked man bound to the bed. “I hate this country.”

Cassandra groans and shields her eyes, and Varric folds his arms, looking incredibly amused.

“Please,” the man gasps, tugging violently at the ropes that hold him; the source of the creaking, Asha realizes, as the bedposts protest the force. “Help me.”

Asha approaches the bed and doesn’t bother to hide her sneer of disgust. “What happened?”

The man flushes deeply under her heavy stare. “It’s not what it looks like,” he says meekly. “Honestly, I… I would have preferred if it _were_ what it looks like!” He gives another little tug, grunting, “The Empress led me to believe I would be… _rewarded_ for betraying the Grand Duke. This… was not what I hoped for.”

“Clearly.” Asha’s voice is drier than the Western Approach. She taps at the taut ropes binding the nearest limb with the head of her staff, but she makes no move to free him. “And how did you betray Gaspard?”

The man huffs, glancing away, face flaming. “The Empress beguiled me!” he growls. “Into giving her information about… plans for troop movements in the palace tonight.”

Asha lifts her gaze to the vaulted ceiling, grinding her teeth. “She knew of the coup,” she says.

“The Duke’s surprise attack was countered before it ever began,” the man confirms bitterly. “She’s turned it into a trap--the moment that he strikes, she’ll have him arrested for treason!”

“I don’t know which is worse,” snaps Cassandra, still covering her eyes. “Celene for using such a tactic, or--” She gestures vaguely at the man. “-- _him_ for falling for it.”

“Some men think with their cocks,” Asha says flatly. She glances down, and the man squirms. “Very little intelligence to be found there.”

Varric nearly doubles over, shoulders shaking with silent laughter as Cole stares at the man curiously and says, as if answering a thought, “It’s not cold in here at all. There’s a fire in the hearth.”

Asha meets the man’s mortified gaze and holds it for a long moment, thinking. And then slowly, her eyes brighten. _‘Celene knew.’_ The sudden magnitude of these small words fills her with nothing but pure delight. _‘All along. And she was going to let Gaspard go through with it, just so she could behead him. Tonight was never about peace talks. This evidence damns her.’_ She smiles, dazzling, and the man blinks hard, ceasing his futile struggling. “I’ll protect you from Gaspard,” she says gently, reaching for a rope. She pauses with her fingers on the knot. “So long as you’re willing to testify about Celene’s trap.”

The man jerks. “I’ll do anything,” he breathes, nodding. “Anything--just--please. Release me.”

“Your word,” Asha says, gaze piercing.

“You have my word!”

 

XXX

 

The next discovery in the Royal Wing leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, but it’s useful all the same. Speculation would have been enough to condemn Briala’s role in tonight’s masquerade--her being aware of both Celene and Gaspard’s machinations and all too happy to let them tear each other to pieces and reap the benefits of Orlais’ instability. It would also have been enough to use the elven locket found in Celene’s vault to discredit her to her own people, tentative proof that she and Celene were once lovers, or that they still are, with the right lies told.

But the elven servant whose life she saves from another harlequin is now a witness to Briala’s duplicity. Irrefutable proof that Briala is more than willing to sacrifice the lives of her own people if it strengthens her.

“Go to the ballroom,” Asha murmurs, a comforting hand on her arm. “Find Commander Cullen.” She pauses, thinking for a moment of the way the nobles had hounded him, of how he would surely be suspicious of a stranger. She stiffens, but reaches for her neck all the same; there will be no better proof that the woman is telling the truth. “Give him this, tell him that I sent you,” she says, carefully unclasping her silver locket and laying it in the woman’s palm. “He’ll keep you safe.”

The woman trembles, wobbling on her feet. Her brow furrows. “But… Briala--”

“She cannot harm you,” Asha murmurs. She glances at Cassandra, who gives her a meaningful look. And then she adds, “My people are in the palace. If you stay by Cullen, you will be fine--not only will he protect you, but one wrong move from Briala, and he’ll give the order to take action. Would she be so foolish?”

“No,” she huffs, folding her arms, curling in on herself. Bitterly, she says, “No, she is too smart for that. She lays traps and lets her enemies walk into them, keeping her hands clean.” Her breath comes shakily, but when Asha squeezes her arm, she gives her a tremulous smile. “Thank you. Maker protect you, Inquisitor.”

The moment the woman leaves the room, Asha turns to Cole and whispers fiercely, “Follow her, make sure she gets there and gives him that locket.”

Cole nods and departs without a word.

“Was that wise?” Cassandra asks when they make their way down a long, dark hall; evidence of the Royal Wing’s restoration is everywhere, covered furniture and scaffolding lining the gilded walls. No wonder the wing was sealed for the night.

“It was necessary,” Asha says, keenly aware of the press of cloth against her neck, missing the weight of her necklace. “Tensions are high; Cullen would have been suspicious of that woman no matter how frightened she looked. With the locket, he’ll know she’s telling the truth.”

“Will he?” Varric asks, quirking a brow. “Didn’t he give it to you? If I were him, I’d think she took it off your body.”

“He gave me what’s inside--and he’ll see that the locket isn’t broken, nor is it bloody,” Asha replies matter-of-factly. “Since that means I clearly didn’t part with it over my dead body, I must have given it willingly; he’ll know that. And he will see Cole. It’s f--”

They all freeze when a familiar pop and hiss rings out in the silent corridor; Asha is rooted to the spot, staring at her open palm. The Anchor sizzles, flickering, casting eerie shadows upon her. Her heart pounds heavily as she looks to the door ahead--a gold placard beside it reads _Jardin de Rêverie_. The garden.

Cassandra watches her warily. “Is that--”

“It’s not an open rift,” Asha whispers, slowly advancing to the door. The Anchor flares, and her jaw clenches against the pain. “But there is something.”

“We could go back,” Varric suggests. Asha shakes her head.

“We need the mercenary captain. The word of a witness is worth more than anything else.” She glances over her shoulder at them, lips pressed thin. “Are you with me?”

“Of course,” Cassandra breathes, readying her blade. Beside her, Varric grins.

Asha lets her barrier ripple over them, shimmering brightly. “Trust me,” she whispers, and then she opens the door.

The viridescent seam of light that cuts through the dark sky is expected; Asha tucks her free hand behind her back, feeling the Anchor react to the forming rift’s close proximity. Without even needing to do anything, she knows that her mere presence is destabilizing; it would take so little to find the tattered strands of the Veil and pierce it, tear it open.

The neat row of Venatori archers standing with their arrows aimed for her heart stops her from making any sudden moves, however. And then, someone calls for her.

“Inquisitor! What a pleasure,” Florianne says, sauntering out onto the balcony that looks over the garden. Her smile is cold, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “I wasn’t certain you’d attend. You’re such a challenge to read, I had no idea if you’d taken my bait.”

Asha eyes her warily, signalling to Varric and Cassandra that they must hold behind her back. She tightens her grip on her staff, feeling the bite of metal against her palm. The unopened rift before her ripples, a slow wave of cold air passing over her. Beneath it, there is a grizzled-looking man slumped against a post, hands bound behind his back. He stares at the light, face slack with terror. _‘Ah,’_ she thinks, realizing. _‘That’s why her skin was so cold. She was laying the trap.’_

“Unfortunately, Your Grace, it appears that I will be otherwise occupied, if you were searching for another dance,” Asha says after a moment, voice low and mocking. Florianne’s eyes go flinty with disdain.

“Yes,” she snaps. “I see that. Such a pity that you did not save one final dance for me. But it was kind of you to walk into my trap so willingly. I grew tired of your meddling hours ago.” The gauzy wings of her mask flutter in the chill breeze, and Asha’s stomach turns; it lends Florianne the appearance of a giant, living moth having settled on her face. “Corypheus insisted that the Empress die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him.”

Asha’s eyes narrow. The pain in her palm has sharpened, searing, as though hot iron pierces her skin. “And what, pray tell, does Orlesian royalty stand to gain from helping Corypheus attack your empire?”

Florianne laughs mockingly. “You think so small, Inquisitor,” she says. “So… _Dalish_. Hunting for scraps, content with living in the dirt and thinking yourself a proud people. Why settle for an empire when Corypheus will remake the world? Though I admit, I will relish the look on Gaspard’s face when he realizes I’ve outplayed him.”

“Yes,” Asha hisses, biting back a worse retort despite the fact that in this moment, she can’t think of anyone she hates more than the smug Orlesian shemlen mocking her. Hoarfrost crackles up the length of her staff. “It’s satisfying to watch someone fall apart when they realize they’ve lost control, isn’t it?” she asks, echoing words that Leliana had said to her what seems like an age ago.

Florianne inclines her head, studying her thoughtfully. “Indeed,” she drawls, and then she smirks. “A shame you will not be there to see it. I imagine the only thing more satisfying than the look on Gaspard’s face will be the look on Celene’s when I drive my dagger into her back. In their darkest dreams, no one imagines I would assassinate her myself. All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike--but I will do even better than that.” She motions towards her archers and turns away, calling as she disappears into the palace, “Kill them--and bring me her marked hand.”

With a furious snarl, Asha slams the butt of her staff into the ground, drawing from the chill and forcing her energy down and out. The crackle of ice is almost grating in her ears as a wall of it bursts from the ground in jagged spikes, surrounding them as arrows whistle through the air. She hears them pierce the wall, sees it crack from the assault just as the sky ripples and the rift bursts open. The temperature plummets harshly, the screeches of despair demons rending the air.

“What's the plan?!” Varric shouts.

Asha turns and blasts a hole in the wall behind them with a bolt of flame, just big enough for her companions to slip back into the palace. “You run!” she calls, hearing claws strike at the ice wall, the Venatori crying out as the demons pouring through the rift attack.

"With all due respect, that's a shitty plan."

“You are mad if you think we would leave you!” Cassandra cries.

“Somebody has to warn the Empress!” Asha shouts, just before the pain in her hand spikes; without thinking, Asha drops her staff, brought to her knees as she clutches her wrist and screams. Her muscles lock, hand trembling uncontrollably as the pain lances through her. Vaguely, she is aware of Cassandra and Varric at her side, Cassandra’s arm around her back and Varric’s hand on her arm. The night air is freezing, frost crackling between her fingers, spreading on the ground beneath them.

It is so cold, and it hurts. For a moment, she forgets where she is. For a moment, she is back in the mountains.

 

XXX

 

_The red lyrium shard pulses hotly in her chest, but her teeth chatter from the cold. Every move is blinding agony, but she tells herself to take just one more step forward, and then another, and then another. Over and over. She will find her way forward and move until she dies. And it won’t be at Corypheus’ hand, nor the hand of a Red Templar. That is enough for her._

_One foot forward, and then another, pain rocking her body with every step. Face, shoulder, chest, back, belly. Deep cuts and bruises, piercing wounds and blood._

_Green fire in her limp hand._

_The Veil is so weak that even wraiths need no rift to materialize before her, much less the demons. They circle, sucking in the deep sorrow, the despair of knowing that she is going to die alone and cold, never having seen her clan again. Never having seen her loved ones, her friends._

_Or Cullen, existing as he does somewhere in the uncertain space between friendship and more. And she’d never told him._

_With every breath, the mark burns hotter. She has no staff, no energy with which to cast, to fight. She can’t save herself. But something pulses in her palm--like a heartbeat, almost. Demanding. Calling her. Heightening her focus until the threads of the Veil ripple before her, suspended in the air, blanketing the world. She can see it. She can reach out and touch it._

_Without knowing why she does it, Asha reaches towards the sky as the demons lunge. Her palm brushes against the Veil._

_The force with which the rift that she creates bursts into existence, a vortex of sickly green light that swallows every demon and wraith and tears them to pieces as it pulls them back into the Fade, shakes the ground beneath her feet. The earth rumbles. The air is aflame. Her palm burns._

 

XXX

 

“Get back,” is choked through her gritted teeth, and Asha shoves her companions aside with little care. She knows they will catch themselves, knows they have questions that she will answer later, but now--

Now, she reaches up and tears the glass mask from her face and shatters it upon the ground. Now, she rips the glittering cuffs from her ears, the jewels from her wrists, and gasps, “I’ve only done this once before; get back.”

Cassandra and Varric stumble to the edge of the ice wall, cracks spidering along the length of it. They could run through the gap, but they don’t. Asha rises from her knees, sways unsteadily as she focuses. The world narrows down to the pain in her hand, the Anchor uncontrollably spitting magic forth as her power swells. She blinks and looks up, sees past the rift in the garden and the ice wall that is about to shatter.

The stars in the sky fade. She sees the Veil instead, rippling, swirling before her, filling her sight. Asha reaches up and presses her marked palm against it.

For one moment, the world is quiet. And then, sound filters back in--a sigh, at first, a breath let out as if in relief. Her own, perhaps. One, and then more. Louder. Buzzing, roaring, and then--

The rift forms with a concussive blast, ice and glass shattering into glimmering dust. Asha grunts as the beads in her hair break apart and tear up, away, drawn into the vortex, leaving little nicks in her skin where blood wells up. The palace windows blow out, and Asha closes her eyes so she won’t have to look at the way that the Venatori archers have their limbs torn off as they are sucked into the Fade. The demons follow, and Asha doesn’t know which screams are louder, which are more agonized. All she knows is that this is her doing--her last defense, last mechanism of survival if all else fails.

She can create a rift. A temporary thing, and smaller in scale than the ones she must seal; nothing pours out. Rather, its purpose is to draw things in; it takes her enemies, consumes them viciously, and seals itself when the Veil corrects its own instability.

When Asha comes back to herself, she stands in the center of total destruction. Broken glass litters the grounds, blood and ichor sprayed across the grass, the garden destroyed as a result of her actions. She doesn’t regret it. She raises her hand once more, lets her arm lock as Fade energy streams from the other rift to meet her palm. Beneath it, Gaspard’s mercenary captain remains bound to the post, gaping in horror, unable to comprehend what he’s just witnessed. When the pain spikes, she seals the rift and sinks to her knees, her limbs feeling like water.

Cassandra waits until she’s dragging herself to her feet again, using her staff to support her weight, and hoarsely asks, “How long have you been able to do that?”

Asha’s eyes are dark with exhaustion, the shade of bruised flesh. Blood trickles down her temple. “Since Haven,” she answers quietly. Both Cassandra and Varric watch her with a mix of awe and apprehension. “It’s how I survived, then.”

Cassandra lets out a choked breath, eyes wide. “Does it… hurt?” she asks.

The weight of every burden she bears this night colors Asha’s tone when she says, simply, “It’s agonizing, ma'iovro.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the night winds down.
> 
> I'm pretty eager to wrap up the drama and move back to intimacy. :> Thanks for sticking with me.


	31. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She might smile if she weren’t so exhausted. She’s almost positive she’s in a state of mild shock; after weeks of fearing the consequences of every word and action in the Winter Palace, now she feels such a deep sense of calm that her own self might be dormant in a body that is not her own. As though it can’t possibly be her speaking evenly and trapping these people so thoroughly in her own finely woven web. As though she can’t possibly be this composed with blood drying on her bare face.
> 
> As prepared as she had been for leadership, nothing could have prepared her for this. Not for any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE 2018 MOOD IS ME FINISHING MY FICS Y'ALL.
> 
> Hello. I'm back. Sorry it took me... several months, please don't throw stones at me lmao. This is the end of Halamshiral! At last! There's a lot here. Thank you immensely if you've been waiting patiently for an update, or if this is your first time coming across this fic. I love you guys. I hope you enjoy!

_"I love you more than your mother._  
_More than you love yourself."_  
**\-- 'May I Have This Dance?' by Francis and the Lights, feat. Chance the Rapper**

* * *

 

Cullen’s heart seizes in his chest when he glances through the crowd for what feels like the millionth time and catches sight of Asha. A sigh of relief dies in his throat as he registers her bare face, blood dripping down the naked curve of her cheek; she carries her staff, bracing her weight against it. His fingers clench around the silver filigree locket nestled in the palm of his hand.

“Asha,” he hisses, shouldering through the crowd and meeting her halfway; one look at Varric and Cassandra behind her, their jaws tense, and the panic that’s been festering in his gut spikes. Murmurs from the crowd around them begin to slowly spread. “Maker, what _happened_?”

Her gaze flicks to his fist, to the silver chain dangling from his grasp, and then towards the balcony where Celene is preparing to make her grand speech heralding the official start of the night’s negotiations. Briala, Gaspard, and Florianne stand on the landing below, conversing, the latter with her back to the dance floor.

Asha’s eyes narrow. “Later,” is the only answer she gives him, veering sharply for the stairs.

Cullen follows at her heels anyway, brow furrowing. “The Empress’ speech is about to begin; what should we do?”

“Go wait with Leliana and Josephine,” Asha commands, eyes fixed firmly ahead. And then, in a tone that could freeze fire, “I’m going to have a word with the Grand Duchess.”

“What?” Cullen breathes, baffled. “There’s no time!” he says, but despite the warning, Asha doesn’t break her stride, doesn’t even _look_ at him, and he realizes then that the hand wrapped around her staff--the left--is trembling uncontrollably, and bits of broken glass gleam through her curls, and--

He grabs her arm without thinking. She whirls around and claps her free hand over his, a warning, lightning in her eyes and a ferocity in her voice that shocks him when she snarls, _“Trust me._ ”

It is a command, not a plea.

Again, Cullen doesn’t think. He doesn’t need to. Despite the confusion, despite the worry, despite the fact that--for a terrible moment--when an elven servant had sought him out and pressed Asha’s locket into his hands with shaking fingers, he’d thought that he’d failed her, failed to protect her _again_ \--

He lets Asha go, as he always does. It cuts him deeply. But as he makes his return to Leliana and Josephine, keeping an eye on her progress through the floor all the while, Cullen reminds himself that while she is just Asha, she is also so much more. The Inquisitor. A veritable force of nature. A savior to some, to many--to him, in the worst nights. A miracle worker, even.

The thought that she’d likely roll her eyes in exasperation at being called any of that isn’t quite enough to make him smile, but his white-knuckled grip on the locket relaxes just a bit.

Watching her weave through the nobles--watching when they all begin to take notice of her presence and part like waves on the Waking Sea--he sees her in a fragment of memory that he has visited often before, whirling under the eye of a maelstrom in the snowbanks of Haven. Weaving control through chaos, somehow. Reining in something that should be utterly destructive, but not when she brings it to heel.

The rest of the memory comes quickly, as it always does. His own words then, blunt and terrible and true. _“Because in spite of what I would be, putting my trust in mages does not come easy.”_

Cullen takes a deep breath. Beside him, Leliana shoots him an urgent look. “What did she tell you?” she asks.

“To trust her,” he says simply.

He does.

 

XXX

 

Her blood surges hot, as it had during the frenzy of battle. Gaspard is the first one to notice her, surprise flickering in his gaze as he stops mid-sentence to gape at her. Briala falls silent next, though if she is shocked by her appearance, she gives nothing away. But it is when Florianne turns that Asha allows herself to truly smile, spreading her arms wide in a mocking greeting. Her every step is soft, graceful, hips swaying. She needs every eye on her.

Her marked palm burns, but this will feel _good_ \--as only an amalgamation of justice and revenge can.

“We owe the court one more show, Your Grace,” Asha calls, loud enough that those who still whisper in the crowd hear the unspoken order to fall silent. A hush spreads.

Florianne’s lips press thin into a line of disapproval. “Inquisitor,” she says.

Asha clucks in admonishment. “The eyes of every noble in the Empire are upon us, Your Grace,” she says, as though speaking to a child. And then, with cruel mockery as she saunters up the steps, “Remember to _smile_. This is your party, after all. You wouldn’t want anyone to think you had… _lost control_.”

A flash of fury in Florianne’s eyes is swiftly replaced by dread, growing with every step Asha takes towards her. Even her mask cannot hide the truth; in this final dance, she has made a grave error. Asha would be lying if she were to pretend that she won’t relish kicking Florianne’s feet out from underneath her once more.

Florianne tries for a smile, but it ends up closer to a grimace. “Who would not be delighted to speak with you, Inquisitor?” she simpers. And then she takes a step backwards.

Asha’s grin is feral. Her blood drips onto the marble floor. “You didn’t sound nearly so complimentary when we last spoke, Your Grace. What was it, Cassandra?” she calls, turning, gaze landing immediately on the place in the crowd where she knows her faithful friend will be. “What did she say to me?”

There is a shuffle, a flurry of whispers, and Cassandra appears from a gap in the gallery, tall and proud in her formal armor. She is intimidating and unforgiving when she takes part in the Game just this once, at Asha’s command, and answers, “All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike. Those were her words.”

Amid the shocked outcry that rises up, Asha hums, nodding. “Ah, yes,” she breathes, eyeing Florianne as she begins to circle her. The Grand Duchess refuses to look away, but there is a flat shine in her pale eyes as she watches all her carefully woven threads unravel at Asha’s hands. “But when your archers failed to kill me in the garden, I feared you wouldn’t save me this last dance!”

She turns, passing her staff to her right hand and extending her left. It still trembles, the Anchor hot and hissing, spitting acidic light and magic into the air. Florianne recoils, and Asha lets out a wounded laugh.

“But I saved your trophy, Your Grace,” she croons, stepping forward; Florianne takes another step back. Asha cuts her eyes at the balcony above where Celene stands. The Empress watches, silent and neutral as though carved from stone. Asha’s smile turns mocking once more. “My marked hand,” she says, and the Anchor flares; the entire court seems to draw in a breath, waiting. “That’s what you wanted, yes? To cut off my hand and deliver it to your master? Proof of a job well done?”

Florianne’s jaw shudders. Celene cocks her head, and her gaze turns to frost.

“Or perhaps you’re not interested any longer,” Asha says suddenly, pulling back and picking at her skirts. “It is _so_ easy to lose your good graces.” A beat passes, and she takes a gamble. “Though I do wonder what sort of slight your own brother must have dealt you, for you to murder a Council emissary and frame him for the crime.” She whirls, relishing the blank shock on Gaspard’s face just before she asks, “When did you last see your dagger?” His hand flies to his hip, to the empty sheath, and she knows that he hears the subtle threat in her voice when she adds, deliberately, “Was it before or after you had _three shots of brandy?_ ”

Gaspard turns a rather impressive shade of puce and glances at Celene. She turns her calculating stare on him, and Asha leaves the lions to consider each other as she stalks her own prey.

“It was an ambitious plan,” she concedes, though the insincere praise only agitates Florianne. “Celene, Gaspard, the entire Council of Heralds… and me. All of your enemies under one roof; it should have been so _easy_ for you, should it not?”

Through gritted teeth and a false smile, Florianne gestures to the spectators and says, “This is very entertaining, but you do not imagine anyone _believes_ your wild stories. You Dalish _exaggerate_.”

It is clear when gasps of outrage ring out that the court’s favor does not fall with Florianne; she pales, and Asha smirks--why should it, after all? Asha has spent this night spinning her own threads, weaving connections in the crowd and collecting affections with nearly every move she has made, as have her advisors and companions. The Inquisition has infiltrated the Winter Palace, in every sense. For this moment, whether they like her because she is a novelty or because she is excellent entertainment--never because they see her as a person--doesn’t matter; it’s what she needs, and she will take it either way.

This, at least, is hers by right. Her victory to claim.

“That will be a matter for a judge to decide, cousin,” comes Celene’s voice from above.

Her cold certainty leaves no room for hope. Florianne’s breath shudders from her as she turns and reaches for her brother, who still watches. “Gaspard?” she says weakly, and Asha presses her fingers to her mouth to stifle a laugh. The crowd, noticing, muffles their own mirth. “You cannot believe this! You know I would never--”

Gaspard cuts her off with a huff of disgust, pulling away and turning his back on her. Briala follows him silently, smirking over her shoulder at Florianne, eyes gleaming with approval at Asha.

Florianne’s hands begin to tremble when two of Celene’s guardsmen appear at the top of the steps. She backs away, straight into Asha as she jabs the head of her staff into the small of her back. Florianne gasps and whirls, and there in her eyes is the look that Asha had wanted so desperately to see.

Blind terror.

“You lost this fight ages ago, _Your Grace_ ,” she intones mockingly. Florianne stiffens, and her expression goes curiously blank. Asha’s muscles tense, bracing. “You’re just the last to find out.”

Florianne slips a hand high up her billowing sleeve, quick as a viper, and Asha reacts; before the court can blink, the head of her staff cracks sharply across Florianne’s face. She shrieks as the jagged metal gashes her cheek open, rendering her once-pristine mask a ragged, bloody ruin.

The dagger Florianne had gone for slides across the floor and clatters to the bottom of the steps. Right at the feet of the court. They gape, and for once, fall utterly silent.

Asha seizes Florianne’s wrist and feels no glory, no triumph at the way she begins to weep. All she feels is dark, violent rage and the way that her palm _burns_. “I said,” she begins, voice guttural. “You’ve _lost_. And now these guards will take you before you do something _truly_ stupid and I have to kill you to spare you the embarrassment,” she spits, and then she shoves Florianne away.

Florianne collapses, mad and wailing, and Celene’s guards are forced to drag her off the ground. Slowly, people begin to titter at the spectacle. Somewhere, off to one side of the room, someone begins to clap, and others follow.

Asha takes a deep breath and turns, extending her hands and bowing deeply to Celene. “Your Imperial Majesty,” she calls over the rising din. “I think perhaps we should speak in private. Elsewhere.”

For the first time this night, Celene looks at her with wariness in her gaze. “Perhaps we should,” she says.

The Empress doesn’t argue when Asha suggests that Gaspard and Briala be present. The following suggestion that her advisors also be present earns nothing more than a raised brow, but after the events in the ballroom, the Empress is in no position to deny it. Celene’s honor guard escorts them all to the Grand Library; Asha is grateful that her advisors follow silently as she trails behind and listens as the Orlesian trio begins to trade barbs now that nobody else can hear them.

Amid Gaspard and Briala’s bickering, Asha glances off to the side; in the shadows between the shelves, Cole’s watery-eyed gaze peers out. He holds the elven locket--Briala’s locket--in his hands, fingers tracing patterns in the pendant.

Asha raises a finger to her lips and shakes her head. Cole frowns, but nods. She looks away and moves to follow the others onto the private balcony. The night’s cool breeze is a balm to her skin, even as Celene turns an icy stare upon her and says, “For the safety of the Empire, I will have answers.”

Asha manages to keep her expression impassive as she strides forward, to the very edge of the balcony. Down below, the Winter Palace’s courtyard is empty; it seems far duller now than it had at the start of the night. Even with pretty lights twinkling in the distance from the rest of the High Quarter, the whole of Halamshiral seems dull, really--like a tarnished bauble rather than a true gem.

And the three major players of the Game, waiting for her words, are responsible. All of them.

Asha realizes, then, that nothing but her fear is stopping her from saying so.

“Every one of you is at fault,” she says softly. There is no malice in her tone. It is simple fact; she is a Dalish elf, this night has been nothing short of torture, they are all at fault. “You all conspired to allow this to happen.”

Behind them, Asha can see every single one of her advisors go pale. Josephine nearly sways on her feet.

A beat passes before Celene stiffens and sneers. “That’s a bold claim, Inquisitor,” she murmurs. “Are you prepared to defend it?”

Asha can only laugh at the poor attempt at intimidation; in the face of everything that she’s endured, this is wry amusement more than anything. She enjoys the flicker of irritation in Celene’s expression for only a moment before she says, matter-of-factly, “The chevalier I discovered tied to your bed will be more than happy to defend it for me.” She smiles. “You allowed the Grand Duke to sneak soldiers into the palace, hoping he’d make a politically foolish move.”

Gaspard’s jaw grinds. “That’s duplicitous even for you, Celene,” he bites out.

Asha rolls her eyes and scoffs. “You were stupid enough to take the bait,” she says flatly. Josephine draws in a sharp little breath, but it is Leliana she nods to when she adds, “We have your orders to your men--and before you claim that papers can be forged, witnesses cannot. Your mercenary captain is no longer in your employ, by the way. Commander?”

Cullen blinks. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

Her eyes glitter with amusement. “I’m sure you can find a use for a Fereldan mercenary company, yes?”

He very nearly smiles. “I believe I can.”

“Good,” Asha says, nodding. “Treat them well; we wouldn’t want the captain--” She glances at Gaspard; an angry vein throbs in his neck. “--spilling all our secrets.”

Briala smirks. “Clever, Gaspard,” she mocks. “If you’re trying to get hanged for treason.”

Asha swallows hard, but she doesn’t hesitate. With an impassive look, she finishes, “And Briala manipulated the both of you. One of my people found your ambassadors dead and locked away in a room above the guest garden. The letters you received from them were forged.”

A tense moment of silence passes, and Briala’s gaze turns from shock to betrayal to smug anger. Neck stiff, she cocks a brow at Asha and says, “Even if I did, you can’t touch me.”

“Oh Briala,” Asha murmurs, and the touch of regret in her voice is sincere. She takes a step forward, shaking her head, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder. The gesture might as well be a slap in the face, for all that it lacks in true comfort. “Nobody will care whether or not I’ve touched you. But they will care that Celene has, and that you two were lovers when she purged Halamshiral’s alienage.”

For the first time that evening, Briala’s expression drops. And then her fury returns tenfold, her voice shaking. “And you think they’ll take the word of an elf mage who beds her Templar commander seriously?”

Asha sinks her nails into Briala’s shoulder, and the fine hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck begin to stand on end. There are a dozen things she could say--that she hasn’t bedded him yet, that Briala has no right to speak of them like that, that it doesn’t matter anyway who she fucks because she is the Inquisitor and she is a true leader--

But her voice is as calm as a still lake in Honnleath, utterly unruffled when she responds, “My commander is well aware of the blood on his hands. As I am of the blood on mine.” She can’t help but glance at Cullen--and her heart skips at the look on his face, how overwrought his expression is. “That’s why we did what we could to wash them clean before we ever touched each other,” she murmurs. His expression softens. She releases Briala’s shoulder, feeling blood on her fingertips. She does not regret it when she glances at Briala and finishes, “It is not the fault of an elf mage who beds her _former Templar_ commander that you let an Empress with a burning torch and bloody hands stain your sheets.”

“Enough,” Celene bites out, and all gazes snap to her. Her face is pale as death underneath her cosmetics, her dainty hands balled into fists. “You’ve made your point. What do you want?”

Asha’s smile is rueful. “This is not about what I _want,_ ” she says matter-of-factly. “You are three of the best minds in the Empire. An Empire I could easily dismantle were any of the knowledge I’ve gained tonight made public--you would all do well to remember that. But you could do so much more for Orlais and your people if you ended the fighting; there is far more at stake than your titles, and there will be no freedom if the threat that Corypheus presents is not stopped.”

Asha watches them mull over her words, none of them looking pleased. But they can’t do a thing about the circumstances now, and they all know it. Asha glances at her advisors; Josephine still looks shaky but nods in approval, Leliana has a pleased little smile on her face, and Cullen looks oddly surprised.

She might smile if she weren’t so exhausted. She’s almost positive she’s in a state of mild shock; after weeks of fearing the consequences of every word and action in the Winter Palace, now she feels such a deep sense of calm that her own self might be dormant in a body that is not her own. As though it can’t possibly be her speaking evenly and trapping these people so thoroughly in her own finely woven web. As though she can’t possibly be this composed with blood drying on her bare face.

As prepared as she had been for leadership, nothing could have prepared her for this. Not for any of it.

It is Celene who speaks at last, critically. “It is remarkably… _optimistic_ to believe that the three of us could ever forget our differences, Inquisitor.”

“I do not ask you to forget your differences,” Asha says. She gestures to her advisors. “I do not forget what I don’t have in common with my advisors, be it my beliefs or my background. They don’t forget theirs either. I am also not asking anything of you, really. I am _telling_ you that you will behave like the leaders you claim to be and declare a truce. You will prioritize what is best for your people over your desires. You will focus on stopping Corypheus instead of being so concerned with undermining each other that you practically allow his people put blades to your throats--I will not spend all of my time _saving_ you,” she hisses. “I have a war to fight.”

“As do we,” Gaspard sneers, and Asha scoffs at him.

“Yes, actually, you do,” she says flatly. “It is the same war, and it has already snuck up on you while your back was turned fighting a needless one.” She glances back to Celene. “So what will it be? Will you let your Empire crumble and your people die for the sake of your pride? Or will you do what needs to be done?”

Celene purses her lips. “It appears we have no choice,” she says with bitter resignation. Nobody else speaks up to disagree.

Asha can’t help the faint smile that crosses her face. The words remind her of something she’d said to Cassandra, many months ago, when she’d been bound and dragged up a mountain pass to seal a rift or die. How angry she’d felt. How helpless. How strange that a moment which had held so much terror at the time has become a memory to view with a sort of fondness, now.

After all, that had been the start of everything. They have all come so far since then. And there is farther still to go.

Asha sounds almost cheerful when she says, softly, “No. I suppose you don’t.”

 

XXX

 

Time quickens its pace after that, almost absurdly so. A hasty diplomatic negotiation meant to serve until the final terms of the Inquisition’s alliance with Orlais are formally settled is followed by Celene’s handmaidens tending to Asha’s appearance--a flurry of white-gloved hands is all that’s left in her hazy memory, after. Then a speech, and Asha barely feels the eyes of the court as they fix on her, greedily drinking in the sight of her bare face while she speaks in a steady voice.

An alliance. A peace paid for in blood and secrets. A false unity, won through blackmail--and one that none of them intend to maintain beyond achieving their immediate goal, though nobody will ever say it aloud.

Her marked hand trembles slightly. It might be a lie, and the peace will surely not last long beyond the war with Corypheus, but Orlais’ battles will never be hers to fight. Certainly not with people that she doesn’t trust as far as she can throw them.

How Asha feels about Morrigan’s appointment to the Inquisition--an appointment that had _not_ been discussed during the negotiations--is not much different. But Celene’s arcane advisor intrigues her, and she is at least slightly more obvious about her self-interest.

Even if the way that she boasts about her knowledge makes Asha grit her teeth. She has met Keepers like that before. Greedy for knowledge, to regain what they’d lost so long ago, desperate to the point of recklessness. She remembers word reaching her clan, years ago, of what had happened to the Sabrae clan’s Keeper.

Her hand still trembles, light flickering along the seam of the Anchor. Asha glances out at Halamshiral; the view from this private balcony outside of the grand ballroom looks the same as the one from before. Again, it fails to fill her with anything but disappointment.

The Inquisition can consider this night a victory, but Asha is left feeling hollow regardless. And though she is alone for the moment, she won’t truly breathe easy until Skyhold’s walls surround her once more. All she can do now is brace herself against the marble balustrade and let the cool night air wash over her.

Her palm throbs with a phantom ache, and the wound on her head stings, but she is alive. Whatever she feels that she’s lost this night, at least she is alive.

“Inquisitor.”

Asha startles from her thoughts, hand flying to her staff before she can register that she _knows_ the voice. Low, gentle, and a Fereldan accent. So familiar. Her face burns with shame as she drops her staff back against the balcony’s edge and turns.

The relief that floods her senses when she sees that Cullen, his mask discarded, merely looks concerned--not afraid of her--nearly turns her limbs to water. “Forgive me,” she murmurs. “I was… somewhere else entirely, it seems.”

He shakes his head, stepping out into the moonlight. “It’s alright,” he says easily. He smiles apologetically and says, “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Asha says, turning back to the view. Cullen is at her shoulder in a moment, towering over her as always. She can’t help but lean towards the warmth of his body. “That’s why I’m hiding out here.”

“Ready to hex anyone who disturbs you?”

“That’s not--are you making _fun_ of me, Commander?” she whispers, almost startled by how easy it is to smile at him. Even after everything. “Really?”

Cullen’s eyes glitter with amusement, but the moment passes, slipping into something more solemn. Quietly, he asks, “Are you alright?”

“I--” Asha starts, but whatever she might’ve said melts into a laugh that is more wounded than anything. She blinks, eyes watering, and shakes her head. “You know, the only one who’s asked me that question all night is you,” she answers. Her voice breaks a bit, and the pinpricks of lamplight shining in the distant High Quarter all blur into a soft, golden glow.

Her breath catches in her throat when Cullen reaches for her, the thumb of his gloved hand gently sweeping away the lone tear that rolls down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Asha’s answering laugh is weak and watery. “Don’t be,” she says, laying her palm across his knuckles, keeping his touch in place. She shakes her head. “Truthfully, I don’t know. It’s… arguably the best result we could have hoped for. Everything that the Inquisition needs, it can have. But I...” Emerald light flares in between her fingers, and a hiss of pain escapes her as she pulls away.

Cullen catches her hand anyway, not willing to let her go. “Forget the Inquisition for a moment,” he says, smiling when she pretends to look scandalized at the suggestion. He reaches for her other hand then, turning her away from the balcony’s edge and towards him, her fingers clasped in his. “If it might help, I have something for you.”

Asha quirks a brow at him. “Oh?”

He smiles, softly, digging into his pocket. “Something of yours,” he clarifies, and Asha’s breath catches when she spots the glint of a silver chain between his fingers.

“Oh,” she breathes, softly, and another tear falls. “Cullen…”

“May I?” he asks quietly, holding up her locket. At her nod, he moves behind her, delicately laying the pendant against her throat. She reaches back and twists her hair up, out of the way; Cullen’s eyes linger on the delicate nape of her neck as he fiddles with the clasp. When it snaps into place, Asha sighs in relief. He watches her shoulders sag, as though a great weight has been removed from them.

She turns to him then, one hand pressing the locket to her, the other reaching for him. “Thank you,” she breathes, her tone so heavy that he knows her gratitude is for much more than the return of her locket, of the coin kept inside. Her grip on him is tight, trembling.

Cullen takes both of her hands in his once more, thumbs brushing over the tops of her knuckles. “Perhaps it’s foolish, but,” he starts, gaze warm and golden, “I was worried for you tonight.”

Asha struggles not to turn away, to hide her gaze from him in shame. She’s never wanted to, never felt so unsure of herself until this vulnerable moment. In the ballroom, the faint strains of yet another rendition of Empress of Fire begin to float through the air.

“It’s not foolish,” she whispers, and his grip on her tightens. Her eyes slide shut, another tear falling. She waits for the voice in her head--the one that sounds like a fierce combination of Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne--that’s been with her all night, reminding her to keep up appearances. But nothing comes to mind. No rebuke. And she confesses, “I could hardly recognize myself for so much of tonight, it was… awful. No wonder you worried.”

A beat passes, and Cullen’s expression turns almost shockingly fragile. He squeezes her hands, briefly, and then says, “For whatever my opinion is worth… I know you were doing what needed to be done. It may not have been easy to watch at times, but nobody else could have managed all that you’ve accomplished tonight.” He watches an exhausted smile struggle on her face, her expression still weary. His heart stutters in his chest, and he admits, “Though if I could take you away from this, I would.”

A quiet breath shudders from her. “I just want to go home,” she whispers. “To Skyhold.”

The gravity of those two words settles on them then, bringing silence with it. Though the music still plays in the background, and though they can hear faint cheering and laughter from inside the palace, they don’t speak. There’s an impossible warmth to Cullen’s gaze again--he looks at her now in a way that nobody else ever has. In a way that she accepts as approval to what she’s just admitted aloud for the first time.

The clan might be her family, but Skyhold is her home.

And Asha might not much like herself at the moment, but Cullen watches her as though she is the only thing in the world that matters. As though if she said, in a language that he knew, that she loved him, he would say it back.

Her ears flutter as the old song fades and a new one starts--a quieter, softer waltz that she doesn’t recognize. It’s surprisingly lovely for Orlais. And it almost seems fitting, her lips parting as she considers it.

But Cullen is the first one who speaks, seemingly drawn by the music as well. “I may never have another chance like this,” he begins softly, and Asha’s heart skips. The absence of his touch as he pulls away makes her follow, turning away from the balustrade as he steps back and gestures to the empty balcony. “So I must ask.” He dips into half a bow, to her, extending his hand--and his voice is so tender with hope that her heart throbs almost painfully when he asks, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

Asha can’t help but press a hand to her mouth, hiding her delighted smile. Heat burns high on her cheeks, and the air warms tellingly. “I thought you didn’t dance,” she says breathlessly. She takes his hand.

He chuckles, a bright splash of color on his face as well. “For you, I’ll try,” he murmurs, one hand entwined with hers and the other resting on the small of her back. He glances down at her--even without the glittering glass finery, she is still radiant. Perhaps even more so now that her face is bare and he can truly see her--the glow of her stormy eyes and the dark, elegant lines of her vallaslin. “You’re lovely,” he says as they begin to move.

Asha’s laugh is soft as a bell chime, and the sound of it settles in the small space between them, achingly sweet. “Thank you, arasha.” She smiles, fingers flexing on his shoulder. Knowing he’s had more than enough of the nobility waxing poetic about his good looks, all she says is, “It’s a shame you’re probably going to get rid of this jacket. It suits you.”

“I’m going to burn it,” he says simply, smiling at the way that Asha buries her head against him, her shoulders shaking with laughter. His heart feels almost full to bursting. He can’t help but draw her closer, until there’s hardly any space left between them. It’s not a proper waltz anymore, but he doesn’t mind simply swaying there with her in his arms. By the way that she melts against him, Asha doesn’t seem to mind either.

“That sounds nice,” she hums. “Pinning this dress up in the courtyard and incinerating it.”

“Or let Sera have a go at it first.”

Asha gasps, delighted. “You have the _best_ ideas.”

Cullen snorts. “I don’t believe you’ve ever said that to me before.”

She glances up at him then, red lips curling in a teasing smile. “Alright, admittedly, you’ve never had a good idea before. I was being generous.”

He catches her face in his hands then, trying and failing to fight off his own amusement. “I’ve had plenty of good ideas.”

She grins, blushing under the intensity of his gaze. “Name one.”

He kisses her then, hands tangling in her hair, tipping her face up to him; the sound she makes as their lips meet, hushed and wanting, sends a frisson of arousal through him, as does the way her mouth parts under his. Her hands reach to cup his face, fingers trailing gently down the slope of his jaw, on the rasp of stubble against her skin. She shivers, desiring more than either of them can have at the moment. But the kiss lingers, lasts a long while until they reluctantly part.

“Alright,” Asha whispers, a hot puff of breath misting in the air. Her eyes flutter shut as she replays the sensation of his mouth on hers again in her mind, sinking her teeth into the meat of her lower lip. “I will grant you that.” Cullen’s answering chuckle is a low rumble that vibrates through her; she smiles. Longing colors her tone when she adds, “If only I didn’t have to leave early.”

Cullen leans into her touch. “How long will you be gone?”

“Long enough for news of my clan to reach Skyhold before Leliana and I can return from Valence,” she says; fragility creeps back into her voice as she ducks her head. “Cullen?”

“Yes?”

When she looks back up at him, her eyes are wide and glassy. “Don’t send the report on when it arrives. Please. Wait for me to return. I would rather…” Her voice wobbles, but she shakes her head briefly and steadies on. “I would rather be home when I learn of the outcome at Wycome. Whatever it is. I need to be home.” Her fingers tremble. “With everyone. With you.”

Cullen nods and softly says, “We will wait for you then.” He swallows hard, embracing her when she leans against him, seeking the comfort of his touch. He presses a kiss against the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her--faintly, the fragrance of violets, but also the tang of sweat and the sharpness of a faint storm. The scent of her dormant magic, though he can’t detect it now as easily as he used to, that sense dulled with the absence of lyrium. It doesn’t raise the hairs on the back of his neck the way it used to.

“Thank you,” she says, voice barely audible.

He closes his eyes then, absorbed in the warmth of her, the melody that they’d swayed to fading away at last. “Come home safe,” he manages after a long while, the words stilted, hesitant.

Asha’s answer is immediate, heavy with certainty. A promise she intends to keep. “I will always come home to you, arasha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: back home. Also the rating probably increases.


	32. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen watches the torchlight flicker across her face, playing shadows across the branches of her vallaslin. For a long moment, he can’t speak. Not until he gathers strength from her patient expression, enough to stroke her cheek and confess, “I find myself wondering what will happen after. When this is over... I won’t want to move on. Not from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW! Like, a lot.
> 
> God, you know, I had like six songs up for the Mood Track and then a few weeks ago, Kendrick Lamar just decides to blow them all out of the water, lol. I hope you enjoy; this is near and dear to my heart. Thanks for reading!

_“Love,_  
_let’s talk about love._  
_Is it anything and everything you hoped for?”_  
**\-- ‘All the Stars’ by Kendrick Lamar ft. SZA**

* * *

 

A spell of bad weather hits Skyhold a mere day after Asha and Leliana return from Valence. It’s in the middle of an evening snow flurry, likely the last of the season before the weather turns to warmth, that Asha makes her way across the battlements to Cullen’s office. She slips inside the rear door, a missive folded in her hand and dark, wet hair plastered to her cheeks, nearly sighing in relief at the warmth within.

“In the meantime, we’ll send soldiers to…” Cullen’s gaze fixes upon her immediately, words faltering near the end of giving his people their orders. His eyes almost glint gold in the torchlight, soft and warm. Asha can’t help but smile as the soldiers pretend not to notice her; she leans against the wall and folds her arms, silently waiting.

Cullen’s awareness finds him then, as he straightens and clears his throat. He glances down at the sheaf of notes in his hand and shakes his head briefly, and then continues at last, “To, ah… to assist with the relief efforts. That will be all."

The soldiers all wear the same poorly concealed expression of amusement when they salute him, and then her, and file out the door. Asha can’t help but laugh softly, thumb idly tracing over a corner of the parchment in her hand as Cullen shuts the door with a heavy sigh.

“There’s always something more, isn’t there?” he murmurs, but there’s the barest hint of a smile in his expression when he glances at her.

“You’re an easily distracted man, Commander,” Asha teases, pushing off of the wall and taking a step towards him. He turns from the door and gathers her in his arms; she lets out a soft sound of contentment, breathing in deeply. He smells faintly metallic and smokey. “Sparring today?”

He chuckles. “Yes, with Dorian.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head and adds, “And I am _not_ easily distracted. It’s simply you.”

“Can’t keep your eyes off me?” she whispers cheekily. Cullen pulls back and smiles down at her.

“I really never could.” He catches sight of the folded missive in her hand then, and the lightness begins to fade from his expression. “Would you like to--”

“Yes,” she says quietly, moving to set the paper on his cluttered desk. He’s been hard at work, clearly--the usually ordered space is chock full of piles of notes scattered about, dotted with used inkwells. A map of Orlais is half-buried under books and rolled parchment, though she can see bright marks pinned in the highlands of the Dales. Asha glances at the missive that had brought her to Cullen’s office. She doesn’t need to read it again--he knows what it says, because he’d written it for her just before the start of his brief.

 _We’ve found the source of Samson’s red lyrium supply,_ had been hastily scrawled. Excitedly, even, before the gravity of the knowledge had set in.

There really is always something more, Asha thinks, as she brushes clear a space on the desk for her to perch on and face Cullen. First there had been Valence--a success. A quiet, thoughtful Leliana on the way home to Skyhold. And then news from Wycome--a success. The elimination of the Venatori advisor to Duke Antoine, the temporary safety of her clan, the destruction of the red lyrium planted in the water wells the humans drank from. The official ratification of the treaty between the Inquisition and Orlais--a success. A steady parade of diplomats from Orlais, Antiva, Nevarra, and more every day. Even Chantry officials, come to consider whether the former Right Hand or the Left will ascend to Divine.

Hardly room to breathe, but still. And now this.

“Where is it?” Asha asks, hands folded in her lap. She’s already prepared to dislike the answer.

“It’s an area located in the Dales,” he answers solemnly, watching her brows knit in disapproval. “The Emprise du Lion. Near a town called Sahrnia. It’s known for its quarries, before the war saw it fall into decline. Destroying the mine there will cripple Samson’s operations. And now that Corypheus has lost his grip on Orlais, he will not want to lose anything else.”

“Certainly not his general’s main supply of red lyrium,” Asha mutters, frowning. “The Emprise,” she says. Her voice is utterly flat. “What little information we’ve gotten from the area...”

“I know,” Cullen says. “It’s dangerous. And the rumors of a strong Red Templar presence… I don’t know what you will find, aside from Samson’s mine, but it will be nothing good.”

“I will plan,” Asha murmurs. “We’ll need… strong people. The strongest. Those with excellent constitutions.” Her gaze is dark, heavy with shadows. “The red lyrium will make people sick. Only those who can withstand its effects the most should be sent.”

“I agree,” he says, coming to stand before her. He reaches for her hand, squeezing tightly. “You’ll have a list of names by the week’s end.”

“Excellent work, Commander,” she whispers, but the teasing lilt she’d brought to his title before is long gone now. Now, he watches her with a pained gaze, and her heart aches for him. She knows he hates any discussion of Samson. She knows he likes directly sending her into danger even less.

A faint, phantom burn spreads in the center of her chest; Asha barely manages to not reach up and press a hand over her red lyrium scar. It won’t soothe the pain. All she can do is return the tightness of Cullen’s grip, looking up at him as she says, “If it helps, the day is almost over. Tomorrow will be a new one, with more to do. Other things to think of. Maybe Josephine will make you attend a dinner with the merchant princes of Antiva instead of me.”

Cullen snorts, the tension breaking like a spell. “How exactly would that help me?”

“I never said just who it would help. The answer is, obviously not you.”

“Maker’s breath, you spend too much time with Varric.”

Asha shrugs, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Cassandra always says the same thing. I think it’s with good cause, though--have you noticed how much he’s been writing lately? I think he was actually serious about making a new book. And asking so many questions--about the clan. About what my life was like before the Inquisition.” A beat passes, and her voice is softer when she adds, “About what it might be like after. If there is an after.”

Cullen swallows hard, and the air is suddenly thick with an entirely different sort of tension. Not a heavy one, but one like a bowstring slowly being pulled taut. “This war won’t last forever,” he says. There’s a note of hope in his voice, but also something unreadable. A bit unsteady.

“It won’t,” she agrees. Outside, the mountain wind howls against the walls of their fortress. “It’s a bit of a strange thought.”

Cullen huffs a breath that might nearly be laughter. “When it started, I… Well, I hadn’t considered much beyond our survival. I hardly thought beyond month to month, and sometimes even less than that.” He pauses for a moment, throat working. “Things are different now.”

The question on Asha’s lips is almost absurdly intimidating for how simple it is. But it opens a door that neither of them had put much thought into crossing through until now. There hadn’t been enough time before. “What do you mean?”

Cullen watches the torchlight flicker across her face, playing shadows across the branches of her vallaslin. For a long moment, he can’t speak. Not until he gathers strength from her patient expression, enough to stroke her cheek and confess, “I find myself wondering what will happen after. When this is over... I won’t want to move on. Not from you.”

Asha blinks, her breath unsteady. The warmth of his touch and his words send heat curling through her. It’s radiant, like a bright star settling in her chest. She can’t help but feel aglow in the joy of it, but he mistakes her silence for hesitancy. Deep color burns high on his cheeks.

“But I don’t know what you--” Cullen starts, then falters abruptly. “That is… _if_ you--”

“Cullen,” Asha interrupts him, catching his hand in her own. There’s a nearly imperceptible tremor in his fingers, and she shakes her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Do you need to ask?” she responds softly.

He looks as though he’s fighting back a smile. “I do,” he answers, hope in his insistence. “Your clan. All you wanted was to go back to them before. And if it were what you still wanted after, I could hardly blame you. They are your family.”

“And _you_ are my happiness,” she says firmly, eyes beginning to well. The weight of this affirmation settles upon her, overwhelming in its emotion. In the fact that it’s the truth. “Arasha,” she whispers, watching him--watching the way the realization hits him. His eyes go wide, bright with understanding.

“You--” he starts, and she sees the beautiful smile she’s come to love so wholly. The one that makes him look boyish in its earnestness. “You’ve been calling me that--”

“--For weeks now,” Asha finishes for him, smiling back. She swipes at the tears in the corners of her eyes, looking bashful. “But I’ve felt it for longer. Truly. And I never thought I could have this--this feeling anywhere. With anyone. It never seemed possible.” She beams at him. “And then I met you.”

“And hated me,” he says, chuckling softly.

“I didn’t--”

“Instantly.”

“I found you _annoying_ ,” she snaps playfully, whacking him in the shoulder and struggling not to laugh.

Cullen gently brushes a strand of loose hair away from her brow. “I found you remarkable,” he says honestly. “And frightening.”

His gaze is so intense that Asha feels her face heat, reddening. “And now?”

“I’ve seen you fight many times now--would you be angry if I said that still stands?”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Not at all.” She smirks up at him and adds, “You are still annoying sometimes.”

“If you took more of my recommendations in the War Room seriously, that might change,” he says dryly, and the burst of laughter she lets out makes his heart flutter with affection even as she rebuffs the suggestion.

“Oh, arasha. We’ve discussed this. You can’t just punch everything into submission.”

“Strange; I could swear I heard Leliana’s voice come out of your mouth just now,” he teases, taking her face in his hands.

“I can also do an excellent impression of Josephine, if you like,” she fires back. “Now Commander, sometimes we must think with our heads instead of using our fists.”

“A direct approach has its advantages,” he murmurs, leaning in.

Asha sounds a touch breathless when she replies, “I can’t believe you’re trying to start this debate again.” She doesn’t pull back, though, anticipating the touch of his lips to hers. And then--

“I have never wanted anyone in the world the way that I want you.”

Her heart stops for a moment, eyes going wide. Cullen doesn’t look away, watching the flutter of her dark lashes, the way that her lips part in shock. He waits, heart pounding, as Asha draws in a shaky breath.

“That’s cheating,” she whispers, hands coming up to fist in the burgundy cloth draped over his armor. And right then, a thought flashes through her mind--a desperate wish that he wasn’t wearing armor. That she could feel him. She shivers, ears quivering briefly.

“It’s a direct approach,” Cullen murmurs, and again, the teasing tone is gone. In its place is something softer. Huskier. He steps closer, enough that her legs have to part to accommodate him standing in between. “A point in my favor.” His hands come to slowly rest on her thighs, fingers brushing the hem of her tunic. “And it’s the truth. I’ve… endured promises of things, of anything I could ever want. Anyone. And none of it compared to you.”

In her mind’s eye, Asha can practically see the tension. The pulled-taut bowstring, so tight it might snap. “Cullen--”

“Arasha,” he says quietly, catching her off guard once again. A beat passes. And then, even softer, with reverence, “Asha’revas.”

She stills. Even her breath stops short.

 _Asha’revas_. Her name. Her true name, Elvhen, with all of the meaning behind it. All of the hope passed onto her at her birth--hope for her, her freedom. All of the importance behind it. And in the utterance, all of Cullen’s feelings for her. Pure adoration, so strong that it brings tears to her eyes once again, because she has never felt more loved in her life than she does in this moment.

And Asha has never loved him more than she does right now. All-consumingly. So much that it engulfs her, moves her, and banishes any other thought.

The bowstring snaps.

She moves first, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him hungrily, like a woman starved. Lips parted, teeth scraping across his bottom lip followed by her tongue; he jolts and groans, and she swallows the sound. Asha feels his hands ball into fists on the tops of her thighs, fighting for some semblance of control even as he kisses her back, more, harder--and she opens her legs wider. Welcomes him with the heat between her thighs, an invitation that he feels, hips fitting perfectly in the cradle of hers.

Cullen moans then, a deep sound that vibrates in her chest. She tangles her fingers in his hair, ruining the orderly strands, and he puts his hands on her at last. He takes her hips roughly in his hands, the exact same way he’d grabbed her on the battlements when they’d first kissed, and jerks her off the desk entirely.

Asha gasps, startled, breaking their kiss to find her footing. She watches through a heavy-lidded gaze as he turns and sweeps all of the clutter from his desk in one push. Her breath of laughter is drowned out by the spectacular crash of inkwells shattering and books hitting the ground, papers scattering across the floor. Briefly, she hopes that they’re in the middle of a guard rotation right now, because--

Because Cullen gets his hands under her arse and picks her up, depositing her back on the desk and fitting himself right between her legs once more. She lets out an almost shaky breath, chest heaving, pinned underneath the weight of his gaze. His eyes are dark with arousal, honey-gold. And he says, plainly, “I want you.”

 _‘Oh,’_ she thinks, lips quirking up at the corners, ‘ _I want you too, I want you.'_

But even though his words aren’t phrased like a question, he is asking. He is. And though he’s breathing hard, though he’s looking at her now with that rare, desperate hunger… His hands are trembling. And she realizes that hers are as well.

So Asha takes a steadying breath and reaches for him, cups his face in her hand. Feels the slope of his jaw, the rasp of stubble against her fingers. Slowly, she traces her way down to the silvery scar that cuts into the corner of his mouth. She runs the tip of her finger over it, like following a river on a map.

“Like this?” she asks softly, and he blinks, realizing she’s responding to him. His gaze focuses on her. “You want me?”

“Yes,” he breathes, and there’s relief in his tone--relief that she understands, relief that she sounds like she’ll agree. She’ll allow him to touch her. To take her.

Desire clenches sharply in her gut. She nods and shifts, hands braced back on the desk as her legs come up to wrap around him, brave as she’s ever been. Cullen groans, head bowing, and Asha bites her lip at the feel of his erection pressing firmly against her. “Like this?” she whispers, almost needy. “You want--”

 _“Yes,”_ he growls, burying a hand in her hair and crushing her mouth to his.

She sighs into the kiss, hands fisting in the dark fur of his mantle. She feels like an overripe berry, skin too hot, nearly bursting with raw want. She’s imagined this before--what it would be like. How it might happen. Every scenario--fast or slow, in his bed, in hers, in the bath, anything, every possibility when she lay alone at night, aching. Everything.

And yet, every thought seems a cheap imitation, hazy and half-forgotten, compared to this. To now. To pulling back again and looking at him, at the desire in his eyes and the mussed curls of his hair. Another pulse of heat rocks through her, and she wonders briefly what he feels when he looks at her. What he sees.

Asha brings a hand up to the scarf knotted around her throat, and Cullen’s gaze drops there. His nostrils flare, and Asha can’t help but smile. A slow, satisfied curl of her lips. Despite being the Inquisitor and being a mage, the sense of power that fills her now is unlike anything she’s ever known.

“Should I take my clothes off?” she asks, watching him. His gaze snaps back to hers. She’s a bit stunned that her voice is so low and even, that it’s not trembling even though her heart is pounding furiously. “Or would you like to?”

“Take them off,” Cullen says hoarsely, already moving to pluck his gloves off and throw them aside; they hit the floor somewhere behind him with a muffled thump, and Asha bites her lip, fumbling with her scarf as she watches.

Remarkably, there’s little room for shyness. Even as she watches him remove the outer layer of his clothing and his armor and hears it all hit the ground, even as she feels his eyes on her--on the hollow of her throat when she unwinds the cloth and exposes it, on the silver chain that dips beneath the neck of her tunic. On her breasts when she finally pulls the garment up over her head and tosses it on the floor, when he finally makes it down to just his own trousers.

Her skin flushes as he stares, but she doesn’t feel embarrassed. Or frightened. Or even all that nervous, outside of the flutter of anticipation in her gut. Only certain. She slips off the desk and feels nothing but a sense of rightness--of another piece that is the puzzle of them falling into place--as she loosens the laces of her trousers and strips the last bit of clothing she’s wearing off.

She stands and waits, patiently, for him. She watches the torchlight play over the planes of his bare chest, over muscles and scars. He struggles a bit with undoing his laces, and then she meets his gaze and realizes that he’s still looking at her. Not her body, but her. Waiting for their eyes to meet, and when they do, he gives her the faintest smile. The corner of his mouth slants up, and her heart flutters.

Cullen looks certain as well. Perhaps a little anxious, but not hesitant. Certain. And that is all she needs.

It’s different from bathing together, somehow. Even though they’ve both seen each other without a stitch of clothing on before, this feels unlike any other time. It’s not frenetic nervousness. Nor is it a hurry, despite how they’d come together at first when the tension had finally snapped. Outside, the snow falls heavier, wilder, but this space feels quiet and warm, and still. Like the aftermath of a storm, when there’s a lull into a strange peace.

“Come here,” Asha says softly once he’s naked, and Cullen’s obedience is immediate. She bites back a smile.

He takes her offered hand, and she pulls him so close that he can see the pale ring around her pupils, right before the color deepens into the stormy shade of her eyes. “I don’t know where to start,” he confesses, worried that he sounds foolish. In that instant, he _feels_ foolish. But he’s found himself so overwhelmed with emotion that it’s simply easier to ask her what to do.

It always has been that way. Because he trusts her so implicitly. So it’s a little thing, to shake off the foolishness and wait for her word.

The smile that she gives him is radiant. “Wherever you’d like. We have all night,” she says, and he smiles. “Because I’ve no plans to go back out in that,” she adds, gesturing to one of his windows, to the white blur of snow outside.

“I hope not,” he says with a huff of laughter. He brushes his thumb across the tops of her knuckles. “I’d rather start… wherever you like. Wherever you want,” he adds, and he sounds so sincere, so earnest in his desire to please her that she nearly shivers, slick between her legs.

“Then,” she starts, voice low. “I want you to kiss me.”

He bends, and the press of his mouth to hers is feather-light and tender, sending a tremor down her spine. Cullen wraps his arms around her, one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other over the nape of her neck. A whisper of sound escapes her, soft and wanting at the surprisingly chaste kiss and the promise of more.

And then he picks her up and deposits her back on the desk, startling a bit when she gasps. “Is this--”

“Cold,” Asha breathes, shaking her head and trying to stifle a grin. “I wasn’t expecting the wood to be so cold.”

Cullen snorts softly, and then he hesitates for a moment. “Is this alright?” he manages to ask. “I do… have a bed. Obviously.”

“Here,” she says, shaking her head and laying a hand on his shoulder. There’s nothing but sincerity shimmering in her eyes. “I want you here first. Kiss me.”

 _First._ His mind latches on to the word, heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings as he presses against her once more. There’s a keen awareness of their bodies--all bare skin, flushed and touching. Her breasts against his chest, the smoothness of her thighs on either side of his hips.

It doesn’t escape either of their notices that the desk is, ironically, the perfect height.

A fine tremor of delight runs through Asha as Cullen cards his fingers through her hair and gently tugs, silently urging her to tip her head back. His kiss trails down, from the set of her scarred jaw, to the delicate skin of her throat that he marks with his lips, sucking, and then a scrape of teeth. “Oh,” she breathes, and he answers with a murmur of approval.

Then more. His hands take hers, pressing them back so that she’s braced herself against the desk. She watches him as he leans back for a moment, stealing a quick glance at her breasts before seeming to realize that he can look as much as he wants. That _she_ wants him to, aware of the shudder of her chest as it rises and falls in heavy breaths. Aware of how achingly stiff her nipples are, and how much she wants him to _touch_ her already, at last.

But Asha knows patience well--how much he needs it, especially now, in the newness of this connection. So she lets him look at her, and she doesn’t even need to remind herself, for once, that it’s not about the scar. It’s not about any scar, all those deep and angry marks on her body. It’s about her, and the way that he’s looking at her makes her feel impossibly wanted, every part.

And then he brings a hand to her breast, thumb brushing across the tip of a dark nipple, circling--and Asha shivers and lets out a sound that’s downright embarrassing. Heat ripples across her skin, from the point of his touch outward, and the torches flare. Something shifts in Cullen’s gaze as he repeats the motion, rougher, transforming from hesitation to aroused curiosity. As though he wonders what other sounds he can coax from her.

And there’s a hazy sort of hunger to his gaze as well. She sees it when he meets her eyes for a moment, right before he takes her other nipple in between his thumb and forefinger and gently pinches, and she moans, “ _Yes_ \--like that.”

He does it again, harder, jaw almost slack at the way she responds so openly to his exploration. No hesitancy in what she likes. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly, and though his need for the question confuses her for a moment, Asha nods as her eyes flutter shut.

The cry she lets out when Cullen lays a kiss on her breast is soft, half-choked in her throat as her hand flies to the back of his head. She buries her fingers in his disheveled hair and presses him close, greedy for the burst of pleasure as he does it again, and then takes her nipple between his teeth and _tugs_. “Oh, love,” she pants, canting her hips towards nothing but air, needing more.

There’s a short intake of breath from him at those words, followed by a tremor through his shoulders. And when he pulls back again to look at her, the sheer joy in his expression steals her breath. Steals all rational thought, really; all she can do when he gently pushes her to lay back is follow the silent command, shivering at the cold wood on her naked skin and at the meaningful look that he gives her.

Wordlessly, Cullen drops to his knees. Asha lets out a sharp breath and shifts again, drawing up on her elbows to look, to try and catch his eye because of the _suddenness_ , but he doesn’t mind. Not one bit, not about the nerves or the overwhelming need to please her, because he loves her, wants her in ways he’d tried to avoid paying mind to before he’d met her.

She says his name. Almost as a question--the first bit of uncertainty he’s heard from her so far. He glances up, meets her bright gaze. “Let me,” he says. Begs.

Dusky-eyed, aroused beyond belief at the plea, that he would want her so intensely, she nods. And then she murmurs, “I want to watch you.”

Cullen bites back a groan, so hard that it aches. “Whatever you like,” he says hoarsely, nudging her thighs apart and pressing a kiss to the inside of one, on silk-soft skin. He feels her tremble, lays his palms flat on her until he has her spread open, until he can see the wet folds of her cunt.

He presses a kiss to the mat of dark hair on her pubic mound first. Gentle, easing the both of them into this brand new territory. He lingers for a moment, breathing in the unfamiliar scent of her, musky and warm. And then, lower, mouth brushing over the slickness. Then with his tongue, a deep kiss that has him groaning at the taste of her, salt and heat and impossible softness. Asha drowns the sound out with her own low, heavy moan.

She’s vocal--a fact that he’s grateful for, because of how _good_ it feels to have her tell him what she needs, to obey and bring her pleasure. How good it feels to worship at the altar of _her_ , to be allowed to touch and taste the most intimate part of her. To know that she’s as vulnerable as he is, bared to him completely. It spurs him on, lets him revel in her growing cries and the grind of her hips as he devours her like a man starved.

“Higher,” Asha mumbles at one point, voice quivering. She moans sharply as he obeys, spreading the folds of her cunt open and finding her clit, lapping at the little nub. It’s blinding pleasure, but she wants-- _needs--_ more. “Your fingers,” she says, and it sounds like a plea and a command all at once. “Inside.”

Shivering from his own pleasure, Cullen obeys, never easing his attentions. He traces her entrance so slowly that she nearly growls in impatience, hips pumping. He stifles a laugh and gently pushes in--and then he forgets amusement, forgets everything but her and the silken _heat_ , the flutter of her walls around his finger as it slides in easily with how wet she is.

There’s a sigh of pleasure and a thump, Asha going limp at the sensation and dropping down, her head falling back against the desk. Her eyes flutter shut, keeping them open an impossible task. The world narrows down to Cullen, the steady pump of his finger inside her as she clenches with each throb of pleasure from his attention on her clit. Her orgasm builds like a wave, a gentle swell that becomes inexorable, until it crests and breaks and she comes, back arching and a loud, long cry torn from her throat as everything but bliss drops away. Pure, incandescent bliss.

She comes back to herself slowly, gently pulled from the floating haze of pleasure when he says her name. Her focus returns, an awareness of the trembling of her thighs, the aftershocks of pleasure that pulse between her legs. She manages to pull herself back up to her elbows, a bit unsteady, and looks at him as he kneels between her legs. Her breath hitches when their eyes meet, his pupils so fat with desire that there’s merely a thin ring of burnished gold around them. He breathes heavily, fighting for control. Waiting for her word with a hungry gaze.

With a lazy smile, Asha sits up and tries to stand, but all she manages is to slide off the desk and into Cullen’s arms. She grunts, more dead weight than she’d intended to be, and they go toppling to the stone floor with a yelp that could’ve come from both of them.

“ _Cold_ ,” she hisses, gooseflesh breaking out on the skin of her arms and thighs. Cullen snorts, but he holds her close for the heat radiating from her, and she lets out a soft laugh and wriggles, pushing until she manages to roll him onto his back with her astride him. His breath catches, mirth fading into raw desire as he stares at her.

Carefully, Asha braces her hands on his hips as she sits up--and he flinches. Her fingers are splayed wide across the marks, the ropey scars that cut down his hips and end at the thatch of dark blonde hair between his legs. She glances down and wordlessly runs her fingers through it, gently feeling for scar tissue underneath and finding none. He shivers beneath her, and his cock jumps.

She looks back up, finding him watching her. Waiting. “Is this alright?” she murmurs.

The first time she’d ever seen him like this, he’d looked like a cornered animal. He’d felt a bit like one, admittedly. But now… It’s all he can do to nod silently, his fingers trailing over the tops of her thighs, because it’s still a bit too overwhelming to find the words he needs.

She seems to understand anyway. Her gaze remains fixed on him even as she touches him carefully, experimentally, running her fingers up the side of his cock and circling the head. Cullen manages to bite back a groan at how teasing it feels, not nearly enough friction. But it’s still achingly good.

Slowly, Asha wraps her fingers around him, gripping him at the base. He makes a needy sound, face flushed, jaw clenched and veins in his neck straining. She can still see her come glistening on his chin, and the sight sends another frisson of arousal through her; she bites her lip and strokes him once, and then again, a bit firmer.

And then Cullen stiffens. His breath stills, and his gaze goes flat and far away. And she lets go without a sound, bringing a hand to his cheek and bracing the other on his shoulder as she leans over him. Her brows knit in worry. “Cullen?” she whispers.

He speaks through gritted teeth. “Forgive me,” he says, with a small shake of his head. “I… I was… It isn’t _you_ , it was--it was good. But then, I…” He screws his eyes shut and lets out a shuddering breath.

“It’s alright,” Asha murmurs, gently stroking his jaw, pain lancing through her at how ashamed he looks. “We don’t have to do that. Ever, if you can’t. Don’t force yourself, love.”

“You’re--” he starts, but his voice breaks a bit on the word, eyes shining as he looks up at her. He swallows hard, taking her hand and linking their fingers together, needing even that little connection. “You’re so lovely,” he manages at last.

She flushes deeply, color blooming across her cheeks. Ducking her chin, she can’t help smiling.

Cullen means the words, more intensely than he could ever manage to articulate. Firelight blossoms over the branches of her vallaslin as she sits astride him, the torches flickering as he studies her. His gaze travels across her, from the scar that splits the fullness of her bottom lip, to the mark marring the valley between her breasts where her pendant hangs, glittering. All the marks spread on her body, from the pale scar across her belly to the ropey one over the lush curve of her hip.

He raises his hand, not half as hesitant as he’d felt mere moments ago, and ghosts his touch across one angry scar. She shivers and melts under his hand, hot and slick between her spread thighs, and his waning erection stiffens again at her reaction. That she’s been so touched, so marked by the worst in the world, and is still willing to offer everything to him, all the comfort and understanding… It feels like a greater blessing than anything the Maker has ever bestowed on him before.

Asha’s eyes darken with renewed arousal at Cullen’s tentative exploration of her body. They’re silent, save for the breaths caught in their throats whenever he passes over a sensitive spot, and she rocks on him, aching for friction. This, she thinks, is the most intimate moment they’ve ever spent together. Quiet, utterly vulnerable and pressed together.

He sits up, slowly, a hand braced against the small of her back as he turns them, moves until he’s rolled her underneath him. Her hair fans beneath her in a dark halo, locks glossy in the soft light. They both suck in a tight breath when he leans down to kiss her, and her legs part enough for him to fit in between, cock pressed against the slick heat of her cunt. So _close_ ; her hand slips down to his backside, keeping him in place.

Asha’s eyes are glistening. “Cullen?” she asks quietly. He hums an acknowledgment, caught in her gaze. She asks, because she needs to know, “What do you want?”

The smile that he gives her is a small, fragile thing. “For this to last longer than it’s going to,” he says, reddening, and she snorts. His breath hitches in response at the slide of his cock against her.

“I don’t mind,” she whispers, heart fluttering. “Isalan hima sa i’na. I want to be with you.”

A beat passes, Cullen sweeping the hair back from her brow with a gentle hand. His touch is near-worshipful. And then, quietly, certain as he’s ever been, “I love you.” Somehow, it’s suddenly the easiest thing in the world to say.

Asha blinks, and the smile that she gives him takes his breath away. “Ar lath ma,” she whispers, and the words spark a memory of the Winter Palace, a stolen moment in a room, hidden away from the world. “I love you.”

He kisses her then, deeply, welcoming her sigh of pleasure on his tongue. His breath catches in his throat when she reaches between them and wraps her fingers softly around his cock, shifting. She spreads herself open with her other hand and guides him forward, pressing the tip against the opening of her cunt. Their kiss breaks, and Cullen trembles a bit, replacing her grip with his own as he cants his hips forward, ever so slightly.

The head of him presses in, breaching her, and she gasps. Stills, and he follows, watching a deep flush spread across her face, down her neck, to the tops of her breasts.

Asha’s eyes flutter shut for just a moment, but when she opens them once more, her gaze is clear. “More,” she murmurs. “Keep going.”

Cullen sinks his teeth into the meat of his lower lip, rocking forward slightly. He sinks deeper this time, gasping as she grunts and stretches around him, enveloping him in tight, silken heat. Her walls flutter around him as he enters her in increments, penetrating a bit more with each gentle thrust.

It’s an exquisite burn, nestled somewhere firmly between pain and pleasure for her. Hovering on the fine line so that she can hardly pinpoint where one ends and the other begins. Fingers can’t compare to the girth of him, nor the way that it feels when he sinks in to the hilt with a ragged, shaky moan. It’s all Asha can do to wrap her arms around him, fingers digging into the bunched muscles of his broad shoulders as he stills, buried inside of her. His arms tremble.

Cullen’s brow furrows in concern when he sees tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. “Are you alright?” he asks, half surprised that he can even manage a coherent sentence at all.

Asha’s expression relaxes at his voice, head thrown back as her eyes slip shut. A tear rolls down her temple, disappearing into the dark locks of her hair, and she nods.  “Oh, yes,” she breathes, savoring the feel of him. Even the ache of being penetrated for the first time is cherished, her heart racing. One hand trails down the length of his spine, sending gentle pleasure rippling through him; his cock pulses inside her, and Asha moans softly.

Cullen shivers, burying his face in the side of her neck and taking her soft sounds as encouragement. Mindful of the rough stone beneath them, he moves in careful, shallow thrusts. Even that renders him near insensate, the unfamiliar pleasure of sliding back and forth inside, surrounded by slick walls that grip his cock with every motion.

Everything but her and the delicious friction between them fades to nothing, and it’s an embarrassingly short time before he can already feel his orgasm building. The ecstasy tightens his balls and curls in the base of his spine, magnified with every sharp breath and sensual sound that escapes Asha with each thrust. It’s not like earlier, when her cries had risen as she’d come, but the knowledge that even this brings her pleasure is almost too much, Cullen’s composure rapidly unraveling.

He stills when he’s close, gripping the base of his cock and meaning to pull away--but Asha’s hold on him tightens, her legs locking around him. They both groan at the sudden shift in angle, but she manages her words first. “Don’t,” she breathes, face flushed, sweat beading on her brow. “I want--want you inside… Please,” she adds, a bit shakily.

Cullen’s breath shudders from him. He’s nearly lightheaded from the bolt of sheer _want_ that strikes through him at her words. “I can’t… We can’t have a child,” he whispers.

“I know, love,” she says, brushing back the sweaty, golden curls that have fallen across his brow. “But who do you think grows all the witherstalk that produces sap to make _preventatives_ for our soldiers’ use?”

Cullen’s face flames, and he swallows hard. “Oh. Right.”

Asha giggles--and then lets out a choked groan that he echoes when her muscles tighten around him. “Oh, love,” she gasps. “Move. I want to feel you.”

“Asha,” he murmurs, burying his face in her neck as he begins to thrust again--quick, shallow motions that send pleasure racing through him. It builds, sharp and practically electric, blanking his mind. “I love you. _Maker,_ I love you.”

She pulses around him, knees drawing up and parting, spreading herself as open as she can for him. She moans, breathless, nails digging pink crescents into his shoulders as she gasps, “I love you too. I love you.”

It turns into a litany, words melting into mere half-formed sounds, over and over as he reaches his peak. Cullen groans deeply, heavily, and sinks his teeth into her shoulder as he spills inside. She cries out at the mixed sensations, a sweet ache from his bite and the heat of his cock as it pulses, his seed filling her as their hips grind together. He mumbles something incoherent against her marked skin, and all she can do is turn her head, panting, to press a soothing kiss against his temple.

Silence blankets them then, save for the soft crackle of the burning torches. For a long moment, they lay together, breathing deeply, unmoving. Neither of them wanting to part just yet, despite Cullen softening inside of her and the ache of keeping her legs spread so wide around his hips. Asha can feel drowsiness already settling within, making her loose-limbed and her eyes heavy-lidded.

Eventually, Cullen shifts, slipping from her and rolling to his side with a soft groan. He reaches for her, a finger tracing over the marks left by his teeth. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Asha gives him a lazy smile. “I promise you,” she breathes, shaking her head. “Everything about that was wonderful.”

 

XXX

 

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen mutters later, when they’ve cleaned themselves up with a damp washcloth and burrowed deep beneath his sheets. The state of his office's floor is a mess to be left to the morning. “I work at that desk every day.”

“Should we have gone to the War Table instead?”

“ _No,_ ” he growls, playfully pinching her side; Asha muffles a laugh and rolls away, kicking his leg. She settles back comfortably; his bed is, remarkably, big enough for the both of them. She comments on it, and Cullen shrugs and admits, “Josephine didn’t give me much of a choice. I had the option of moving to a room with a proper ceiling, or a decent bed. Templars don’t have this kind of luxury, but… I didn’t feel like arguing about it.”

Asha hums thoughtfully, nodding as she stares up at the ceiling. This is the first time she’s seen what qualifies as his quarters, and she hadn’t known until now that he’d ordered Gatsi not to repair the roof while Skyhold had undergone the bulk of its maintenance. “I’m surprised you let Solas up here to paint those,” she murmurs, pointing at the top of the wall underneath the hole. Runes to repel the weather are set, painted in the elf’s familiar style, and she can feel the subtle hum of passive magic emanating from them.

“I cannot really sense them any longer,” he says quietly, watching the snow fall from the dark sky above. It’s chilly without any torches lit, but none of it passes through the ward. “And being able to see the sky was worth it, in any case.”

Asha nods, knowing Cullen can’t abide by closed, dark spaces. She thinks, briefly, that if he spends a night in her quarters, she’ll make sure that the curtains are tied off the windows so that he can see the snow-capped mountain peaks and the sky. She stretches quietly, turning on her side to find him watching her now. She smiles softly. “Hello.”

His lips quirk at the corners as he reaches for her, pulling her to settle against him. He gently strokes her hair. “I can hardly believe this is real,” he confesses after a long while. She lets out a quiet breath of laughter.

“I know what you mean,” she whispers, voice beginning to grow heavy with sleep. A beat passes, and then she says, “I never thought I would find this. Ever. Love is... For a long time, I… I didn’t believe I could ever deserve it.” Cullen is silent, though his gaze is solemn and understanding. Asha swallows hard and asks, almost hesitantly, “You don’t regret it… Do you?”

“My only regret,” he says, cupping her cheek and swiping away a tear that pricks at the corner of her eye, unbidden, “is that I waited so long to tell you I love you.”

Asha tries to bite back a grin, but she can’t quite manage it. Her heart skips, near-overflowing with affection. “Well, I know now,” she says. “And you know I feel the same for you. About everything,” she adds meaningfully. “Everything now, and whatever happens after our war is won. I’m yours.”

He presses a kiss to her brow, and then to her lips. Gentle, soft and sweet until he pulls back a few moments later. His gaze is warm, full of adoration. “And I am yours. Now and after.”

 _‘Forever,’_ he thinks, watching her eyes droop shut as sleep comes for them both. _‘If you’ll have me.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My slow burn tag really just did not fuck around.
> 
> Up next: morning after. :)


	33. Consecration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She loves him. Him, with the burden of his past. The reality of all that he’s done. It almost doesn’t make sense--but then, he loves her. Deeply, unwaveringly. And the way that he loves her has never been in spite of anything. Not in spite of her magic, nor their differences. Never that. They are facets of the whole. They are what make her who she is, and he adores who she is.
> 
> So he thinks, then, that perhaps he’s begun to understand just how she loves him. Because in this, there isn’t a difference between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a fuckin'... happy relationship sprinkled with sappy introspection and stuff. Also a bit NSFW. Kind of a shorter chapter, but it felt wrong to continue past the point I ended at here.
> 
> Alternatively titled Cullen Takes Over My Fucking Narrative Yet Again. Enjoy! Feel free to comment. :)

_"You make it all better now._  
_I could love you forever now."_  
**\-- 'My Song' by H.E.R.**

* * *

 

She dreams of the place where she’d left her clan. Asha knows it’s nothing more than a dream the moment that she opens her eyes, greeted by the sight of dappled sunlight shining through the forest canopy. The grass is lush beneath her, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves as she sits quietly. Though she thinks there’s the sound of activity somewhere far behind her--faint, half-familiar voices--she remains where she is. If she turned, she might see the silhouette of the clan’s aravels between the trees.

But Asha keeps her eyes on the empty, overgrown forest path ahead. The palm of her left hand pulses with heat. Her sight ripples oddly, and suddenly, everything seems more verdant. She blinks, frowning at the strange feeling that overcomes her. It feels as though something is growing, and she is the source.

Something moves behind her, the rustle of steady footsteps through the tall grass surprisingly loud. She turns and finds Keeper Deshanna standing beside her.

She looks older. Or perhaps it only seems that way to Asha, though she could swear that there were not quite so many weathered lines in the Keeper’s dark skin, nor so many strands of silver shot through the hair at her temples, when she’d left. Her eyes, however, remain the same. Endlessly warm, gaze fixed upon her as though trying to memorize the sight before her.

Deshanna smiles. “You’ve grown, da’lath’in.”

A soft breath of amusement escapes her. “It’s been little more than a year,” Asha says, shifting to make room on the ground beside her. “And I stopped growing when I was twelve.”

Deshanna chuckles, folding her legs underneath her and taking hold of Asha’s right hand. She turns it over, tracing the lines of her bare palm. “But you have changed. That much is plain to see.” She reaches for her face then, pressing the pad of her thumb over the scar on her lip. “How?”

“Haven,” Asha whispers. Her voice wobbles on the word, on the old grief that passes through her. Slowly, she presses her marked palm to her chest. “The worst is here. Sometimes, it still hurts. As though it’s on fire. And healing doesn’t make it go away; it has to fade on its own.”

Deshanna nods, expression solemn. “Some pain never leaves us,” she says. “We feel your absence every day, Asha’revas.”

“When this business with Wycome is settled, you could come to Skyhold. Tarasyl’an Te’las,” she says impulsively. “If you wished it. The bulk of our army camps in the valley below. You could as well.” A beat passes, and then she adds, softer, “Or you could stay in the fortress with us. There is still so much that goes unused. You could be close.”

The look that Deshanna gives her is rueful. “You must do more than worry about us, da’len,” she says, half an admonishment and half a plea. “Even if we enter Wycome successfully, there are no guarantees of what will happen once we are in the city.”

“Who is we?” Asha asks. Though she knows the general details of their plan to restore order in Wycome in the aftermath of the wells being cleansed, the intricacies are out of her hands. After all, she is not there.

“Myself,” Deshanna says. “Dalinev--”

“You would take your First?” Asha blurts, pulling back slightly. Dalinev--a lean young man, only a few years her junior, with clear eyes and a strong heart. More of a battlemage than a scholar--but then, she’d been the scholar because she’d been the First. “Keeper, can the clan afford to risk you both?”

Deshanna blinks, taken aback momentarily. She shakes her head, the stone beads threaded through her braids lightly clattering with the motion. “He is our Second. You are our First. And Isene will remain behind, acting with the hahrens to lead in our stead. She received her vallaslin not long after you left; she is ready. Many of the warriors will stay as well.”

Asha swallows past the lump in her throat, feeling her eyes well with unshed tears. It’s a long moment before she’s able to speak. Before she’d gone, Dalinev had spent many of his days with the hunters, fighting, and a few learning by her side. Isene had still been young--still technically a child, bare-faced and not yet ready for all of the burdens of a future leader.

How much the war has changed for all of them.

“You must name Dalinev your First, and Isene your Second,” Asha manages at last. “I am not there any longer. And you can’t wait for me, in any case.”

Deshanna’s smile is knowing, and there is no uncertainty in her voice when she replies, “ _You_ are our First. I did press the issue the first time you asked. Dalinev would not hear of ascending; he’s decided that if anything happens to me when we enter the city, he will take the clan to you. It’s a choice he’s spoken of to the clan, and one we all approve.” A beat passes. “Assuming your Inquisition would welcome us.”

“You _know_ we would,” Asha fires back. “That isn’t the point. I’m…” The words die in her throat, more difficult than she’d anticipated to say. “I will not be Inquisitor forever. The Inquisition will not last forever. But even after I am no longer Inquisitor, I will still no longer be a First.”

“Da’lath’in,” Deshanna murmurs, brushing away a loose strand of hair from Asha’s face and tucking it carefully behind her ear. It’s a motherly gesture. One that makes her heart ache fiercely. “What will you be?” she asks gently.

“Myself,” is the first word that leaves her instinctively. That much will always be true. She swallows hard. “A free woman. And perhaps… Perhaps a bonded one, as well.” The Anchor flares suddenly, a viridescent shimmer radiating from her palm. Asha glances down at it, frowning lightly. “I might even still have this.”

Deshanna smiles warmly, eyes glistening with unshed tears when their gazes meet again. “Bonded? A family of your own?” she asks softly. The way that her voice nearly breaks with hope brings tears flooding to her own eyes once again.

“Yes. But no children,” Asha says. “Only us. And maybe--” Her mind flashes back to an old conversation, beside a quiet lake in a small, still-healing town. “Maybe farm animals.” A beat passes. And then, with faint laughter, “And a mabari.”

Deshanna chuckles, wiping her eyes. “You, with a mabari?”

“Oh no,” she says, waving away the notion. “Not me. I’ll keep my hart, though it will drive him mad with the way it screeches. But he won’t argue, because I’ll be the one tending our… our garden.”

 _‘Our garden.’_ For a moment, it feels as though all the beauty of the world is contained in that one little thought. And it seizes her heart in a grip that’s near-painful, because she hadn’t realized until she’d said the words aloud just _how_ beautiful that future would be. How desperately she wants it. The world blurs, and the hand she brings to her cheek comes away wet with tears.

“Where?” Deshanna murmurs, almost dreamily. As though she’s picturing it in her head as well.

Asha sniffs hard, a tremulous smile on her face. “South Reach, I think.”

“Near the Brecilian Forest,” Deshanna says thoughtfully. “A place with much history.” She places a gentle hand on Asha’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You sound happy, da’len. Truly.”

“I _am_ ,” Asha whispers, looking away; it sounds like an epiphany. She fists a hand in the grass beneath her, and her sight ripples once again. She blinks; through the greenery, tiny pale blossoms grow, reaching for the light of the sun. “It is difficult. The Inquisition is… so much more than I was ever brought up to handle. And not everything goes the way that it’s meant to. But… I’m happy. I can help people. I can help _you_ , and the clan. Everyone I love.”

Deshanna beams at her, expression full of pride and a touch of melancholy. She reaches up to trace the delicate branches inked on Asha’s brow. Even with her eyes closed, she could likely follow the path of each one--after all, she’d been the one to mark them. “You have grown,” she says. “Into an admirable leader. Inquisitor,” she adds, with a bow of her head.

Asha bites back the urge to cry again, but it’s a hard-fought struggle. “Keeper,” she acknowledges, nodding in kind. She takes Deshanna’s hand, squeezing fiercely; the Anchor ripples, magic humming over their skin. “You must be careful in Wycome. You must help the people. And--” Her breath hitches in her throat. “And you must survive. Because I must see you again. You are the only family that I have in this world.”

A tear rolls silently down Deshanna’s cheek. “Da’lath’in,” she murmurs. For a mere moment, the sound of her voice makes Asha feel like a child again. “We will see each other again. This, I believe. And when we do, it will not merely be in dreaming.”

“Mythal,” Asha gasps. Calling out in sudden, urgent prayer. “Mythal protect you.”

Deshanna smiles. “The Mother watches over us all, Asha’revas.”

 

XXX

 

When he jerks awake, heart racing and half-blinded by panic, the first thing that Cullen sees is a tree smudged in shadows. He screws his eyes shut, baffled enough that he’s almost certain he isn’t dreaming anymore, though his shaken mind can’t quite tell him where he is until the rest of his senses return. After a very long moment, he’s aware that someone is speaking to him in soothing murmurs--a language he recognizes but can’t understand. A small, warm hand is braced on his chest, right above his heart.

He lets out a quick, shuddery breath and opens his eyes to Asha leaning over him, bathed in the deep hue of the blue hour that fills his quarters before the sun begins to rise. Her eyes glint like jewels, brow furrowed. “Do you know where you are, arasha?”

“Home,” he answers, sleep-roughened voice nearly cracking on the word. He blinks hard, everything in his mind steadily coming into focus. He’d woken from a familiar night terror to the sight of Asha’s vallaslin; shame roils in his gut. He should have reminded her about the dreams before they’d fallen asleep. But he’d been so happy, so comfortable with her warmth beside him, that he’d actually dropped off before he’d known it

That feels almost like a victory of sorts. That he could even do that. At least, it had felt like a victory right up until he’d opened his eyes in dreaming and had been greeted by the sight of a terrifyingly familiar magic barrier around him.

“Bad dream?” Asha whispers, sitting back on her heels.

Cullen props himself up on one elbow, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face. “They always are,” he mumbles, frowning as he touches the sheets beneath him and realizes that they’re damp with his sweat. “Without lyrium, they’re worse.”

The sound she makes is soft and rueful, her ears pressing flat against her head. Rather than regret encouraging him to stay off lyrium, she regrets that he has to go through this at all. She wonders, briefly, how many nights a week the terrors grip him. Privately, she makes a note to see if Solas has anything that might help aid in a dreamless sleep.

Now, she simply asks, “Can you ever feel it? If it’s going to happen?”

Cullen settles back against the sheets, blinking up at the hole in his ceiling. He fixates on the fading stars above, and the gentle sway of leaves on the ivy that’s creeped in partway down the wall. “Usually, yes. On bad days. If I’ve a headache that won’t leave before I retire for the night, chances are that I won’t rest easy.” He glances at her then, legs tucked underneath her and sheet crumpled around her waist. She looks entirely unbothered by her nudity--a stark contrast to him, because he feels absurdly shy about it right now. The memory of last night blazes to the forefront of his mind. “But it doesn’t always matter,” he murmurs. “I could have the best night of my life and still dream afterwards.”

Asha blushes then, a faint bloom of warmth high on her cheeks. “I promise you that I won’t take it personally,” she says, smiling. She leans over him once more, carefully covering his brow with a hand. “No fever.”

“That’s a thing reserved for the bad days as well,” he says, taking her hand and linking their fingers together. Despite the welcome comfort, he can’t help but frown, brow pinching. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’ve grown so used to this, it’s… It’s hardly anything but routine, now.

Asha purses her lips, shaking her head; he watches her unbound hair sway with the motion, tumbling down over her bare shoulders. “You can let me worry about you a little, arasha.”

Cullen gives her a wry smile. “You have a great deal more you should be worrying about than me.”

She snorts, batting his hand away and poking him sharply in the shoulder. “Stubborn man,” she says, but it sounds less biting and more like an endearment coming from her. He can’t help but smile as she crawls back up his side and lays with him, wrapping around him like a vine. “I’ll rephrase--you _will_ let me worry about you. One of us has to.”

A pregnant pause stretches between them. “That’s fair,” he murmurs after a long while, sliding a hand up the length of her back.

Their embrace is really more of her cradling him, her warmth seeping into his skin. Cullen closes his eyes, spreading his fingers across the space between her shoulder blades; she shivers under his touch, and he feels the ripple of heat that radiates from her in response.

“I love you,” he says then, softly. He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound quite so small--but then, sometimes he feels small. A man unworthy of this, of her. Of everything. But it reads in his mind like a fact, not something to lament. As though if, in all unlikelihood, Varric ever decided to chronicle his life, he’d find those words on the page. Cullen Rutherford, farmers’ son, former Templar, commander of the Inquisition’s forces, and unworthy of every bit of faith and trust Asha’revas Lavellan has ever blessed him with. _‘I deserve the dreams more than I have ever deserved her.’_

As though she can sense the thought, Asha shifts, rolling so that she has him half-pinned underneath her. She cups his face in both hands, thumbs brushing across the tops of his cheeks. Over the shadows of exhaustion under his tired eyes, as though she could smooth them away with her touch. She smiles knowingly, eyes glinting. “You’re thinking something very cruel about yourself, aren’t you?” she whispers.

“You know me too well,” Cullen says. There is no point in denying it--and really, it’s more of a comfort. How much she truly does know him, and how she is still beside him in spite of that.

She lets out a soft huff of laughter. “Don’t I, though,” she quips, and his lips twitch. Her smile grows, settling into something tender. “I do,” she says after a moment. “I know all of you. And I love you, as well.” Her voice nearly shakes with the need for him to understand, to know the weight of the words. “I love _you_.”

He _almost_ wants to argue it. Even now, after so much time, there’s still an instinct to push away. To isolate himself from such a happiness as the one that she brings. But Cullen stops, stays the thought. He reaches for her, raw emotion lancing through him when she closes her eyes and leans into his touch with a look of utter contentment. His heart squeezes.

Something incredibly fragile cracks apart in his chest. A weight, perhaps, breaking and falling away, releasing something in its absence. A strange sort of peace that spreads, fills the quiet air as the sky slowly begins to lighten.

She loves him. Him, with the burden of his past. The reality of all that he’s done. It almost doesn’t make sense--but then, he loves her. Deeply, unwaveringly. And the way that he loves her has never been in spite of anything. Not in spite of her magic, nor their differences. Never that. They are facets of the whole. They are what make her who she is, and he adores who she is.

So he thinks, then, that perhaps he’s begun to understand just how she loves him. Because in this, there isn’t a difference between them.

Even so, Cullen can’t help but sit up and press their foreheads together, noses bumping. “I am not a perfect man,” he says softly.

Asha’s eyes brighten, sparkling. One corner of her mouth draws up into an almost teasing half-smile. “Good thing I never wanted one, then,” she says, and it startles a brief laugh from him. The sound makes her expression soften, starry-eyed. Tugging the sheets back, she moves slowly, swinging a leg over his hips. His eyes darken, hands coming up to seat her firmly on top of him. Desire flares to life in his gut.

“What did you want?” he asks, voice rough. Truthfully, he’s curious, though it’s a bit difficult to ignore his growing arousal. His eyes fix on the faint, dark mark on the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Hazily, he remembers biting her last night as he’d come. _‘You’re an animal,’_ he thinks, without any heat.

Experimentally, Asha braces her hands against his chest and rolls her hips once--a languid, easy motion that instantly draws every bit of his attention. “I honestly don’t know. If I ever thought about it, I thought of traits I might find desirable… Kindness, or strength… That sort of thing. I never imagined a person.” She grins, playfully adding, “I certainly never imagined you.”

Cullen chuckles, low and warm. “When I was much younger, I used to think I wanted someone… very soft. Quiet.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs. Her eyes glitter with amusement. “You’ve made a terrible mistake then, haven’t you?”

That earns her another laugh, and her heart nearly skips at the sound and the sight of his crooked smile. “Hardly.” His voice is tender with affection. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, watching the appendage flutter in reaction as he cards his fingers through her hair.

“It’s rude to stare at them, you know.”

He blinks, suddenly mortified. “Is it?”

Laughter bursts from her as his face turns an impressive shade of red, interrupting the apology halfway to his lips. “Oh, I’m teasing you,” Asha giggles. “Only if you’re gawking at them like a fool. Pulling on them is what’s really terrible, though.”

Cullen looks vaguely horrified. “I hope you throttle anyone who tries.”

Asha stifles a snort of amusement. “Nothing a well-timed lightning bolt can’t fix. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I know they’re large, but even so--” She reaches out and tweaks his ear, laughing when he jolts so hard that the bed frame creaks. “Why would anyone just do _that_? Shemlen,” she scoffs.

“Well I promise you I’ll never _pull your ears_ ,” he says wryly, shaking his head at how juvenile it sounds. The words conjure a faint memory--of being a young boy, admonished for tugging on Mia’s hair. He huffs a quiet breath of laughter.

“I know you won’t,” Asha says, smirking down at him. “You like having your hands attached to your body, presumably.”

“I’d consider them quite useful, yes.”

Her frame shakes with laughter as she leans down to press a kiss to his brow. He can feel her smiling against his skin, and he brings his arms up to wrap across her back. To keep her there for just a moment longer.

When she does pull back, though, her expression is tender. “I can’t recall the last time I enjoyed an early morning as much as this one,” she confesses softly. There’s a vulnerability to her tone; the time they get to keep to themselves is a rarity. And this in particular is new ground.

Even so, Cullen can’t help but smile. Easy and unguarded--also a rarity. “I know what you mean,” he says, shifting to brush a thumb across the curve of her cheek. Asha presses against his touch with a sigh of contentment, and the sight is so lovely that it nearly unmans him. His heart stutters in his chest, tight and trembling. “You are… I have never felt anything like this before.”

Asha’s breath hitches, eyes glassy. Her voice wavers just as much as his. “Neither have I,” she whispers. “But I’m happy.” She smiles. “Arasha.”

He takes her hips in his hands and rolls them, carefully, until he has her pressed into the sheets, his mouth on hers. She opens for him happily, arms and legs wrapping around him as a moan edges its way past her lips. He’s so hard it almost aches, the need to be inside her again almost dizzying in its intensity.

For Cullen, desire is a strange thing. Unnerving at times, even. Being gripped so wholly by _want_ when he’d spent over half of his life learning that _wanting_ was wicked feels almost dangerous, in a way. He supposes that it’s yet another part of why it would have been easier to keep taking lyrium, all of the other risks aside.

With the lyrium withdrawal symptoms had returned a number of his senses, though. Food and drink had a stronger taste, and sudden touches were more prone to startle him because he _felt_ more. Despite the dulling of his once-heightened awareness to magic, with it came a heightened sensitivity to all feelings, physical and mental.

And, embarrassingly, the return of a libido that he’s fairly certain he hasn’t possessed since he was a _much_ younger man. He’d been painfully aware of just how much he’d wanted Asha, when he’d understood that his feelings for her were far beyond those of a mere working relationship. It had tied his tongue, made him blunder often, made him feel small and lacking in the face of her fire. Again, it had felt _wrong_ to see her passion for restoring order and helping those who needed it, and to _want_ her.

“I want you,” she whispers against his mouth then. He blinks, suddenly tethered to the moment and less to his tangled thoughts. In the early morning light, he can see the faint beading of sweat on her brow, the deep color on her cheeks. Her smile borders on sheepish when she says, sounding almost amused with herself, “Again.”

She’s given him reassurance without even knowing--a thing he marvels at, privately. It blunts the ragged edges of his need--the apprehension that always seems to lurk just behind--and brings him back down to her. Surrounded by her, content to be so.

He quite likes taking direction from her in this as well, he notes. He’s happy following her lead, her whims, taking cues from the hitches in her breath or the sounds she makes, mouth pressed softly to his ear. Occasionally, words catch in her throat. Clipped phrases-- _there, like that,_ and once, with his fingers inside her and a thumb sliding over the hood of her clit, _oh, that feels so good, arasha._

Cullen is undone, utterly. There’s a freedom he’s unprepared for in this, in being with her. In bracing himself over her and slowly pushing inside, a broken groan vibrating through him as the walls of her cunt flutter around him. Unfettered happiness goes with it, in the feel of her her hair, his hands tangling in the strands, his lips and tongue following the path of sweat trickling in the valley of her breasts as they move together. He’s hungry, greedy for her, overwhelmed by it--and it’s all alright. All wanted.

Few things can eclipse the pleasure of that.

“I love you,” Cullen groans at the peak of his rhythm, over the slap of flesh on flesh as he takes her. Aching and worshipful, his pupils blown wide and jaw slackening as she clenches around him, _hard_ , a ringing cry torn from her as she comes. A handful of thrusts later and he follows, emptying inside her with a sharp grind of his hips and a broken, heavy moan that might be her name.

“I love you too.” Asha’s voice after a long silence is soft, thunder-struck. She breathes heavily, fingers trembling as her grip on his shoulders slackens, leaving behind pink half-moons where her nails had dug into his skin. She hadn’t noticed. Neither had he. A huff of wry laughter escapes her.

Cullen lets out a vaguely inquisitive mumble against her shoulder.

Asha tries and fails to bite back a smile, shaking her head. “Dinner,” she says, and it takes her mind a long moment to catch up to her mouth. The sun shining through the open roof is bright and warm, and Cullen’s body is a weight upon her that she doesn’t quite want to let go of just yet. She wants this moment to keep, to last as long as possible. “Tonight, with the Antivans. Creators, all I’m going to be able to think of is you.”

He smiles easily against her skin. “Fair is fair, considering my desk,” he says dryly. Asha’s answering laugh rings out, lovely.

“Alright,” she says, nudging him. She waits until he pulls away at last, rolling aside as she props herself up on one elbow and studies him with a look that’s decidedly smug in her satisfaction. “Feel free to borrow mine, if you’d like a place that we haven’t…” A beat passes. She smirks. “Consecrated.”

Cullen snorts loudly. “I really wouldn’t call that consecration.”

“I would,” she says. He blinks hard; she sounds so matter-of-fact that she must mean it honestly, and that stuns him into silence.

Consecration. The making of something sacred. Raised by the Chantry, as a Templar, sex wasn’t sacred. It was wicked, like most pleasures--a distraction from duty. Something to be carried out in secret, furtively. Rushed, easier to hide as such.

“I--” he manages after a long moment, briefly, until he snaps his mouth shut because he isn’t sure what he wants to say to that. He’s surprised. And flattered. And confused, his mind a jumble. His throat works for a moment before, finally, he admits, “It would never have occured to me to think of it… like that.”

Asha’s smile is gentle and knowing. She reaches for him, brushing a thumb across the arch of his cheek. “I know,” she says simply. That pulls half a laugh from him.

The thought lingers in his mind, long past Asha taking her leave of him. It stays with him, predictably, at his desk after his office is put to rights once again and he finds himself staring down at a small stack of weekly reports. He can’t help but trail his finger over the woodgrain, briefly distracted, following the dark lines as Asha’s words come back to him.

 _Consecrated_. Made sacred. Through them--him, shakily devout as he is, and her, with all her faith in an entirely different belief. Were he younger, he would call it blasphemy. Now, he isn’t certain what he could call it.

But it doesn’t feel wrong. Not even close. If he’s being honest with himself, now that he’s had time to think, Cullen finds that he rather likes the idea. He isn’t sure he could ever openly declare it to be so the way that Asha had, but then, he knows that she won’t care if he does one way or the other.

It sticks in his mind all day. It remains when, very late in the evening, he decides to take Asha up on her offer and visit her quarters, dressed plainly. A sheaf of requisitions of minor importance is tucked in his grip, on the off chance that the invitation was professional--but the precaution makes him feel foolish as soon as she opens the door.

Just the sight of her, hair intricately braided and fingers herb-stained, makes him smile. “Hello, love,” she murmurs, throwing the door wide and beckoning him inside. The fragrance of fresh herbs hits him strongly as soon as he crosses the threshold. It calls forth an old memory of the apothecary’s cabin in Haven, achingly familiar.

“I’ve missed you,” Cullen says when she leaves him at the desk, turning to her bundles of herbs and pots of oils spread across the floor. He brings a hand to the back of his neck, feeling faintly embarrassed by the fact that they only just saw each other in the morning. But the feeling fades when Asha gives him a dazzling smile.

“I’ve missed you as well,” she says softly, kneeling at her mortar and pestle, returning to grinding royal elfroot to a pulp. The sharp scent fills the air. “That’s not silly, is it?”

“No,” he says, certain, spreading his papers before him. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It isn’t.”

Hours pass easily, with work going well into the middle of the night. Her work, rather--his is finished in no time at all, so he spends the rest of it by her side, watching her work with so many different combinations of plants that he marvels at how she can keep them all straight. It turns into her enlisting his help with grinding the herbs; his hands, they both find, are much steadier now than they had been back when they had first met.

When they retire for the night, it’s together--she’d turned to him, gaze hopeful, and had asked if he wanted to stay. And of course, he couldn’t--wouldn’t--say no. Not to her, to this.

Unlike last night, sleep doesn’t come for him as easily as it had. Perhaps it’s the unfamiliar bed, or the tacit fear of a nightmare, but Cullen remains awake for a while yet after Asha grows loose-limbed in his arms, sinking into sleep against him. There’s a fire still in the hearth, crackling softly, keeping them warm since the doors to her balcony are wide open. She’d done it for him, he knows. So he could turn his head and see the sky, the snow-capped mountains in the distance. So he could feel the faint breeze against his skin and remember where he is. Remember that he isn’t trapped.

 _Sacred_. Asha, body small and warm, shifts in her sleep and curls almost protectively around him. 

He thinks he might understand the idea a little bit more, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Travels? Perhaps.


End file.
